Untouchable
by D Veleniet
Summary: Clara stopped missing the touches, stopped smarting from his flinches when they would accidentally brush up against each other or bump arms. She stopped wondering what had changed so much inside him that had made her physically repulsive to him now. Then one night she agreed to a set-up on a blind date. Sequel to Hold Onto Me.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is a sequel to _Hold Onto Me_, a story I wrote in the fall of 2013 about a possible introduction to Twelve and where I thought Moffat might have been going with his character (as well as a wishful thinking sort of ending for Clara and Eleven). Because this story continues that universe, it might be slightly confusing if you haven't read _Hold Onto Me, _as I reference events and objects from that story. As this story continues, it may become more influenced by how Twelve is depicted in the series, but the events and prior relationship dynamics I've created will remain the same.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to the BBC and the current showrunners. No infringement intended.

* * *

Of all the ways the regeneration had changed the Doctor, the most glaring was that he now _abhorred_ touching Clara.

She remembered coming to this conclusion with a startling emptiness as she drank her tea one morning. Hunching over her mug, she blew on the steam, wondering if it would waft into her eyes and make them water. But her eyes stayed dry, and her sips were calm.

The trickle of awareness that had led her to this revelation had been almost painful in its familiarity. Though she would never have admitted it, she had kept a secret tally of those little additional touches his previous self had indulged in, those constant reminders that he loved being close to her. She silently ticked them off on her fingers, each new one a miniature victory, until they grew so numerous she gleefully lost track. Now instead of additions, it was subtractions. She marked the subtractions as she had the additions, each finger slowly folding in defeat at an absence: the lack of a guiding palm at the small of her back as they navigated their way through a maze of cornfields on Yemont; the absence of a hand at her cheek after she'd tripped over a sleeping Jakrafek and it responded by snapping at her head (she could still feel the warmth of its breath on the back of her neck when he'd pulled her free and asked her an earnest _are you all right?_, hands noticeably dropping to his sides); the way his fingers flew from hers after he'd helped her down a particularly steep incline in the rolling foothills of the village on Çatalhöyük.

And when she was left with a closed fist, wrist hanging limply, she started to gain an awareness of just how wide a berth this new Doctor provided her.

Because apparently… they weren't doing the hugging thing, either.

Gone were their pick-up and drop-off hugs. Gone were the "I'm-so-glad-you're-okay" hugs. As to the "this-is-so-brilliant," and "I-just-have-to-hug-you" hugs? Well…

She'd bravely brushed it off – or tried to – reasoning that he didn't _really_ have to hug her if he'd just seen her last week or would see her the following week. And if she exhibited no broken bones, no bruises, and all limbs were visibly intact – he might still be relieved, even if he didn't show it with a hug. And – well, it was highly unlikely there would be an occasion when this Doctor just _had_ to hug her.

Okay, so they weren't doing the hugging thing. She got that now.

But then came their trip to Oalogtu, home of the Gruhflane.

She'd insisted it felt too quiet when they landed in the capital city. Even ruthless creatures have to visit the shops, she'd reasoned, but there was no hustle and bustle of a thriving city. No proud Gruhflane strutting through the square, their amassed wealth of every conquered race in the galaxy on lavish display. She'd just jabbed an elbow in the Doctor's direction (never poking him in the ribs, of course, as that would require touching) joking that maybe he had exaggerated when he'd declared the Gruhflane the most dangerous, vile, bloodthirsty creatures in the Universe, and they were all hiding because they were going to surprise him with a welcome party.

Unfortunately, she hadn't been entirely wrong.

The net – if it could be called a net when it was made of such a sticky, prickly substance – landed on top of them, and then it was no longer quiet, and she no longer cared if he didn't want her to touch him because she was grabbing at him, clinging to his arm, then his sleeve, then his wrist as she was pulled away from him, away from the TARDIS, away from the capital city to a far-off location somewhere so far beneath the ground that even the light couldn't touch her.

There had been nothing to eat but a strange, grey mush that pulsated in a way which led her to believe it was still alive; nowhere to sleep except the cold, dingy floor of her cell; no conversation except the taunts of the guards who hinted at hearts being ripped out of chests and crushed before prisoners' eyes; no hope left but what remained of her dwindling faith in this new Doctor. Time had lost meaning: minutes stretched out into months and days would end before she was even aware they'd begun.

But then, one absolutely miraculous yet entirely mundane day – she was released.

Her first touch since she had been ripped away from the Doctor and thrown in a cell was a rough drag of her elbow by the guard she'd secretly named Spike. (For all his prominent, pointed chin hairs) He towed her forcefully down a long corridor, around a corner and the next touch was an abrupt shove across the threshold of an archway.

And there he was – the Doctor, overturning his chair as he stood at the sight of her.

Any relief he might have felt was eclipsed by the frigid, murderous rage he exhibited at her captors, as he ground out some kind of terms from between gnashing teeth. But she didn't hear the words because she was willing her feet to obey, to disregard the spinning room and her darkening vision as she stumbled towards him, determined to make it far enough to at least feel a comforting arm around her shoulder.

Yet her body was starved for far more than touch, and if the Doctor broke his rule with her that one time – she never found out.

When she awoke in her bedroom on the TARDIS– _finally! _– he was there. Relief was plainly written across the gentle slope of his harsh eyebrows, but he only laid his fingertips on her wrist to take her pulse, pronouncing her remarkably improved. Silent begging hadn't been enough, and her choked-out request got garbled as it tripped out of her mouth if his blank stare was any indication. Finally, she was able to muster her courage, find her voice, and her request turned into a plea for a _hug_. He'd shifted uncomfortably, then awkwardly patted both her arms, informing her again that she was okay. A further demand led to an even more awkward half-embrace, hands gingerly patting her back, the creases of his elbows still inches from her shoulders. If she'd had the strength, she might've asked him if he feared she'd contracted some deadly Time Lord plague.

Or she might've asked if he'd taken lessons in caring from the Gruhflane.

After that, she stopped missing the touches.

She stopped expecting a caress on her cheek for a proposed solution to a problem or a reassuring squeeze of her hand before they ventured into a particularly dangerous situation. She stopped smarting from his flinches when they would accidentally brush against each other or bump arms as they navigated the console of the TARDIS. She stopped wondering what had changed so much inside him that had made her physically repulsive to him.

She started things, too.

She started kissing Artie on the forehead after his occasional nightmares because she knew how comforting it could feel. She started giving Angie's shoulders a reassuring pat when she was frustrated with her homework. Then she switched jobs, moved out of the Maitlands', and somehow found herself with a touchy-feely flatmate. She started hugging her dad more. She started looping arms with her friends when they went out together. And gradually, that sharp, piercing pain left by her erstwhile bowtied alien slowly dulled. Yet there was still one final means of soothing that ache, one type of contact that she could not find from her flatmate or her friends – or anyone, for that matter.

So eventually, she grudgingly agreed to be set-up on a blind date.

* * *

Out of all of the changes he'd had to grapple with in his new body, if there was one thing that had stayed irrevocably, painfully, _resolutely_ the same, it was that the Doctor _always_ wanted to touch Clara.

At first, he'd thought it was nothing more than a lingering remnant from his previous body – his previous self. And perhaps it was, but he'd never recalled such constant awareness of her in relation to his physical space. It was more like she was always buzzing around his periphery, and he happened to be clumsy enough and exuberant enough (or eager enough?) to keep colliding with her. But there was a sharpness that hadn't previously existed. Whereas he might have noticed her proximity to him before when she leaned next to him at the console - now? Now he could _feel_ every waft of her breath as it drifted over his hands. Before he might have noted there was a sweet smell to her hair when she stood in front of him, but now he intuitively categorized the multitude of odours: freesia, coconut and something akin to sandalwood. Touches had been welcome and pleasant before, but now – now they were simply _electrifying_. Even the briefest contact from the pads of her fingers registered as a burn, not the soft warmth of her skin.

And, unfortunately for him, this new body delivered another heightened sense with regards to touching Clara. Whereas he may have known that her hair was brown before, he now chastised himself for not taking the time to map out the feel of the different shades. Why had he wasted those moments on idle caresses when he could have spent literally _hours_ testing whether the darker brown was slightly heavier, or if her auburn highlights had a silkier feel to them? Every time he'd taken her hand, fingers intertwining easily, he'd never noted whether there was a difference between the dimples in her knuckles – and all those quick kisses on her hands, yet he'd never tested whether his lips fit in between each knuckle. Did the skin at the nape of her neck feel as soft as that of her cheek or her forehead? All those times she'd worn her hair up and he'd never bothered to find out. And, most maddeningly of all, why had he never noticed that rare flash of pink when she sometimes bit her lip? The memory of the precious few times her tongue had brushed against his was still raw, as though it had happened yesterday and not what was arguably a lifetime ago.

It would have been easy, so _very_ easy to give in to at least _some_, if not _all_, of those urges. He might have disguised them, as he had so many times before: a reassuring squeeze of her hand before venturing into a particularly dangerous situation; a brief hug after a brush with death; a guiding palm on the small of her back . He might've decided to keep hold of her hand after he'd helped her down a steep incline.

But he didn't.

It wasn't just the age gap that stopped him. Yes, there were comments – they seemed to follow them no matter where or when they traveled to. From the bustling streets of 19th century Paris to the quaint little villages on Yemont to the soaring skylines of progressive 71st century Triktillfania. It made no difference: everyone assumed she was his daughter, his granddaughter or his niece. No one wondered what they were to each other anymore.

And that only made the contradictory nature of their relationship all the more maddening to him.

Clara was many things, but most importantly she was his compass for his kindness and compassion, buried so deeply within this new body. If he held onto her, he'd find it - as long as she was there.

But then they traveled to Oalogtu, and in a screaming instant, she wasn't there.

The Gruhflane had fled with Clara, and with her – his mercy.

The need to rain down terror and destruction on their planet bubbled dangerously close to the surface, the scalding desire to wipe those self-satisfied sneers off their faces. It took every ounce of control to rein the murderous impulses in.

His hands staid from the bloodshed he craved so that they might touch her again. He worked tirelessly, contacting every friend and even some erstwhile enemies to devise a plan that would release her. Release his hearts' compass to him; release his friend…his Impossible Girl.

Release _his_ Clara.

And when the moment finally arrived, when she had stumbled towards him and fallen, he'd been there to catch her, feeble limbs wrapping protectively around her. He'd stood with her in his arms inside the medical bay back on the TARDIS, knowing that she needed immediate medical assistance for her starvation, her dehydration, and a myriad of other issues he knew he should be thinking of and yet was too distracted by those same feeble limbs' refusal to let go of her.

He'd met with the same resistance after he'd nursed her back to a stable condition, reasoning that perhaps it was because he needed to ensure she was alive, and here, and convalescent enough that he could put her in her own bed, and he was holding her over it as if to say, _take that, Universe! I made a bargain with you that I'd go save worlds if you let her live. I'm holding you to your bargain. And I'm holding her, too. _

But then she stirred, and still he didn't let go.

She stirred, and as he looked down at her, an easy two feet from her bed, the Universe narrowed to the sleeping girl in his arms. To these precious moments he absolutely _had_ to touch her, when he could cradle her to him, ignoring his straining shoulder and arm muscles and press her against his hearts, feeling the faint but steady beating of her own. When he could curl his fingers into the crook of her leg and feel the difference in the skin on the underside of her knee.

But he had to let go eventually.

And when she was awake, when she addressed him with those dark-rimmed eyes, wide with desperation, begging him for a hug, he'd _almost_ relented. He enclosed her in a tentative embrace, like a test - and then – _then_ he felt it. Every nerve ending engaging to every spot of her he touched, orienting like a flower to the sun…

Except instead of blooming, he was bursting into flames.

He'd released her roughly, and he knew he was being cruel – could see the accusation, the pain, the shock and anger in her eyes – but he finally, _finally_ understood just how dangerous giving in would be.

Because she was his compass, yes – guiding him and helping him stay connected to his reason for traveling, for helping. Without her, he was lost.

But _with_ her…

He could surrender – he could give in to these feelings, these _urges_, these ever-present desires – and he knew that she would reciprocate and that they could have what they'd always wanted. Yet, even if she lived and traveled with him, even if she could spend the next 50, 60 years of her life with him, she would die.

They always died.

And then he'd really be in trouble.

Because he wouldn't care anymore. He wouldn't retreat to a cloud to sulk; he'd find worlds to conquer. He would unleash every dark impulse he'd ever harboured; he'd be ruthless and reckless and die a violent death embittered and angry, setting the Valeyard free. He'd be damning the Universe to its destruction.

And so the Doctor kept her at arms' length – quite literally.

Until one evening he showed up on her doorstep and found out she had a date.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Just wanted to give a BIG shout-out to my fabulously meticulous, utterly irreplaceable beta, Friendship-Bravery-Souffles. Who's saved me from all manner of faux pas (she would know how to properly pluralize that word - see? That's how much I rely on her! :-p), including one for this chapter. As always, V, you unapologetically ROCK. :)

* * *

"D'you want another?"

Clara eyed her martini glass, studying the blue dregs clinging to the bottom of it as if they held the answers she sought. As if her enjoyment of it were the _real_ question and not the one underlying it posed from the very earnest man seated opposite her at the table.

"Um…"

They'd already exhausted all that mutual friends and work-related conversation had to offer, dispensing with both topics fairly quickly. Perhaps because neither was particularly enthusiastic about their work, and discovering that they actually knew not just one, but _two_ of the same people hadn't done much for them past brief nods and smiles of recognition at familiar names.

Well…at least that was something in common.

"Yeah, why not?" Her smile was not entirely forced.

Frederick turned in his seat, waving at a passing waiter. "'Scuse me? Can we get – oh, sorry." The waiter rushed right past their table, attending to a group of girls in their 20's who had apparently captured his attention far more than the slightly pudgy man in his 30's with the sandy blonde hair and rolled up sleeves. Frederick's shirt clung to his back in places where patches of sweat had soaked through already.

Clara ran her finger around the rim of the glass, back to studying what remained of her drink. It still had yet to offer any answers.

"What was that again? A Blue Snapper?"

"Sorry?"

Frederick motioned towards her empty glass. "Your drink. I wanna see if I can catch this – 'scuse me, mate!" He successfully snagged the waiter before he disappeared through the kitchen doors. "Can we get another round here? Pint of Guinness for me and a Blue Snapper for the lady."

The waiter peered down condescendingly at Frederick over the rims of his orange-tinted spectacles. "You mean a Blue _Flapper_?"

"Oh, is that what it's called? Yeah. Whatever that blue drink is."

The waiter sniffed as if Frederick had insulted him, squaring his shoulders and looming over the sweating man. "We have other blue drinks, _sir_. Are you quite certain the Blue Flapper is what you ordered before?"

"Yeah," Clara chimed in. "I had a Blue Flapper, I'm sure of it. Could you bring us another one, _please_?" She gave him a grin that was all teeth.

The waiter pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, snapping his notepad shut. "Absolutely, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."

Frederick shook his head after their hoity-toity waiter had successfully made his escape, jabbing his thumb in his direction. "I don't get people like that. Why've they got to be so stuck up? I mean, it was an honest mistake, but he acts like I insulted his bloody mum!"

Clara shrugged. "I dunno. Wouldn't worry about it too much, though."

"That's why I never go to places like this! All they do is make you feel uncomfortable and try to remind you every second that you don't belong here!"

Clara bit her lip and stayed silent.

Frederick blanched. "I mean…that's not what I mean, of course – I'm not saying that it's you – I mean I really am having a nice time," he stammered.

She nodded once. The menu of appetizers she had no intention of eating had suddenly captured her interest.

"And did I mention that you look – well – I mean, you look really, _really_ nice. That's a very lovely dress."

That earned him a half smile. "Thank you."

"_Why are you dressed like that?"_

_Clara sighed, hand immediately going to the back of her neck where a few tendrils had escaped her attempt at an elaborate up-do. "This is why you have a phone, Doctor. So you can answer it when I'm trying to get in touch with you."_

"_The phone? The phone was making a strange, screeching noise, and so I threw it in a black hole."_

"_Well, that was a brilliant idea. I'm sure you showed that phone who was boss, getting it to stop that annoying RINGING sound."_

_The Doctor frowned. "I'm not sure it was ringing – it was extremely high-pitched, and it was hurting my ears. Drastic measures were needed. Though it could've been ringing, I suppose."_

"_If you'd maybe bothered to pick it up before its spectacular demise, I'd have told you that you need to come back next week. I have plans tonight."_

_His frown turned into a scowl. "Why? It's Thursday."_

_Clara glanced at her watch, anxious at the time. "Yes, I know, but this was the only day that worked for me and for…the other person."_

_The Doctor considered her outfit again. "Oh. Are you going to a funeral?"_

_Now it was Clara's turn to frown. "What? No! Why would you think I'm going to a funeral?"_

"_Well, you're dressed all in black."_

"_This is…" She tugged at the little black dress self-consciously, though there wasn't much room for her to tug. Not when the bodice melded to her body with a corset-like fit. She hadn't remembered it being quite this tight, but then again, she hadn't gone on a date since…since…_

_She swallowed, chasing the end of that particular thought away. "This is a dressy outfit for a special occasion. Or for going out to someplace nice and having a good time, hopefully. For a - date." _

_The Doctor didn't even blink. "Are you going on a date to a funeral?"_

_Her jaw clenched. "No, no - don't do that."_

"_Do what?"_

"_Do that thing you do where you act like I'm the first human you've encountered in all your 1200 years of existence. I really don't have…" She sighed. "Just – come back in a week. Pop back in, quick hop – you'll probably be back here in three minutes, and I'll be ready to go."_

_His eyes swooped disinterestedly over her outfit again, landing and fixing on her spiky heels. "Don't be wearing those. Frettalaiku has a lot of swamps, and the bogs emit this foul odour that gets into your clothes and –" _

"_Yes, thank you, that sounds…REALLY lovely, and I'm - definitely sad I'll be missing all the smelly swamps tonight."_

"_Oh, you won't miss them. They'll be waiting there for us next week," he reassured her._

"'_Course they will, can't wait."_

_The Doctor nodded at her as if that settled it. "Good. Next Thursday, then." He turned on his heel, then paused, glancing back at her. "I hope your date doesn't get confused and take you to the wrong place."_

"_And why would he get confused?"_

_He shook his head. "So much black."_

"And that's a nice wrap. Er – shawl?" He earnestly asked her. There was a lot about Frederick that was so very earnest.

"Um – yeah, you could call it a wrap, I guess. Or a scarf, I dunno." Clara adjusted it self-consciously, fidgeting with the ends of the tassels.

"Right, scarf! Well…it looks good on you. The red, I mean. It matches your lipstick."

This smile was more genuine. "Thanks. Nice of you to notice."

Okay, so maybe she _could_ stay long enough for an appetizer. Her stomach rumbled in agreement.

"So, um – what do you like to do for fun?"

"Hmm?"

Frederick seemed determined to make up for his earlier outburst, hands clasping on the table and leaning forward to prove his interest. "You told me about your job, but I'm sure grading can't take up _all _your time, right?"

Clara fiddled with the menu. "No. No, it doesn't. I um…" She cleared her throat lightly. "Actually, I sort of travel. A bit."

"Really? Like day trips and things? Pop off to the countryside for weekends?"

"Well, sometimes. And sometimes, I go a - _bit_ further than that. Other countries and - time zones. That sort of thing."

"Ooh, you mean like Asia? Or do you stay on the continent?"

"Well, I've traveled on the continent. Like, this one time I went to Vienna for the world premiere of - a production. Of an opera." _That definitely wasn't in the 18__th__ century._ "But also places in Asia."

Frederick's head bobbed up and down enthusiastically. "I've heard Asia's brilliant. My mate Gareth and his husband John just returned from their honeymoon to Cambodia. They said it was amazing, like a – 'a Thailand without the tourists.' Have you been to Cambodia? Or Thailand even?"

Clara's smile was tight. "No, can't say that I have. I mostly go to these tiny islands no one's ever heard of. I have this…friend who plans all our trips. I sometimes don't even know where I'm going till we get there, actually." The Doctor's advice on footware for the swamps of Frettalaiku was about the most advance planning she'd ever received from him.

"Oh, that's the best, isn't it? And that's good you travel with a mate – then you've got someone to take photos of you doing all the mad things you'd never do by yourself." He laughed heartily, shaking his head.

Clara fought to keep her smile firmly in place.

He went on. "Or the food you'd never admit to tryin' – like this trip I took with my mates Thomas and Russ, they got me to try duck kidneys after they got a few pints in me. And there I was, gobbling them up like they were chips, with Russ snappin' photos all over the place. Then after they watched me eat the whole plate, they brought the waitress out and she told me that duck kidneys are actually _duck testicles_! Can you believe that?!" He shook his head again, laughing to himself. "Of course, I'm sure you've eaten _much worse_, with all the traveling about! But at least you've got a mate to share in all the mad adventures, laugh with at the end of the day over a pint or whatever they're serving there, right?"

She finally conceded defeat, dropping her head so he wouldn't see the shine in her eyes. "Right…"

"_But I wanted to take photos!"_

_The Doctor eyed her from just inside the stall. "What for?"_

"_Because I'm covered in glittery, sparkly, multi-coloured…stuff and it'd be funny." Clara appraised herself, smirking. Her shirt looked like someone had tie-dyed it whilst on speed, and her once-black tights were a fabulous multitude of pinks and magentas. Apparently Phraganzi dust was like beet juice that way, the darker hues leaving more of a stain. "It looks like a Pride Parade threw up on me. And anyway, you made me keep my mobile in the TARDIS."_

"_Which would be useless now if it had come in contact with the Phraganzi dust – highly corrosive. That flimsy casing wouldn't have stood a chance."_

"_Well, fine, but – can't we just sneak through?" Clara gave him her most winning smile. "You can distract the security guards or whatever, and I'll make a run for it. Another win for my short stature, right?"_

_He had his hand underneath a giant neon purple plastic orb at the end of the green tubing, meant to serve as their supposedly "obligatory" shower. "Clara-" _

"_Or I distract the security guard or whoever's posted out there, and you make a run for it." She tilted her head to the side a bit. "Please, Doctor? C'mon, I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"_

"_The worst that can happen?" He turned to her, eyes blazing. "Other than the alarms going off, the security guards detaining us for questioning, getting fined for violating the local laws, and being forever banished for contaminating holy ground, we would be signing the death sentence of the native plants of the area, highly revered for their healing properties and thus condemning the population of the surrounding villages to protracted illnesses and possibly avoidable deaths." He waved a hand vaguely. "But I'm sure your Twitter account or your – your Pinterest board – will suffer more if you don't commemorate your moment as - Rainbow Brite."_

_Clara swallowed, a harsh stinging in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself, eyeing the neon yellow-coloured plastic orb in her stall protruding from the wall like some malevolent alien flower. "Fine."_

_The Doctor swung his arm around, indicating all of the empty stalls lining the walls, the rows upon rows of green tubing and the various coloured plastic orbs at the end. It was like some bizarre modern art garden. "You have your pick, if you don't like that one." _

_As if her preference for colour was her main protest. _

"_This one's fine." Her tone was flat. _

_The Doctor stuck his hand underneath the showerhead, from which a thick, opaque substance had started to gush. _

_She curled her lip in disgust. "So - not water, then. But we're supposed to shower in it?"_

_The Doctor was silent for a bit, letting the substance flow over his hand. "It's a mixture of decontaminant, a chemical that neutralises the corrosive effect of the Phraganzi and - something else I can't remember."_

_Clara sighed. "Great. A bath of thick, mucous-like chemicals and decontaminant. This should be fun." _

_He was silent for a moment, eyes fallen shut. When he spoke, his tone was softer. "It actually…it feels good."_

"_Ooookay. Well, whatever floats your-"_

"_No, really, just…just try it. Try putting your hand underneath."_

_She squeezed her hands closer to her chest in stubborn refusal._

"_I promise you, it feels…it feels good." He was looking at her openly now, the usually harsh creases about his eyes smoother, the arch of his brows softening. "Trust me, Clara."_

_She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Then she chanced an upturned palm forward, offering her flesh to the liquid as though it would just as soon bite her as cleanse her. _

_The first touch felt odd, thicker and more slippery than water. But after a few seconds, she noticed a warm, pleasant, tingling sensation. _

_The Doctor's arm was now wet up to his elbow. "If you get your whole hand underneath, you'll start to feel it."_

"_Think I already do, Doctor." _

"_No, you'll…you'll feel what I'm talking about." There was a strange fire in his eyes, as if he somehow needed her to do this, to feel what he was describing. As if nothing else mattered to him at that moment._

_Well…maybe he just wanted to soften the blow of his earlier outburst, make this more enjoyable for her. She shot him a questioning look, and he nodded. So she moved her hand in further, wet up to her wrist, then bravely let the substance fall over the rest of her arm, sluicing off her bicep and leaching colour from her shirt. _

"_Feels good…doesn't it?" _

_There was an odd catch to his voice now, but she was too focused on the sensation of millions of tiny fingers, prodding at and rubbing her arm, nudging all of the places that were stressed or wound tightly. "Ohh." She turned so she was fully underneath the spray, letting it hit her back. A breathy sigh escaped her lips. "Yeah…right there." She let it massage and knead at the knots that she had given up all hope of eradicating from the landscape of her shoulder blades, what she had assumed were permanent fixtures in her musculature. She dropped her head, exposing the back of her neck. Slowly, miraculously, she could feel every one of her muscles unwind, uncoil, and breathe at last, prompting a moan of relief from her. Finally, she threw her head back, giving herself over to it completely, shielding her eyes and mouth. It massaged the crown of her head, the muscles in her temples, and gently beat away all the tension in her forehead. A long groan sounded from her throat, muffled by her hands, and it must have reverberated off the stall walls because she could have sworn she heard it being echoed back at her, if inexplicably pitched deeper._

_Then she remembered where she was - and who she was with. It was enough to startle her eyes open, stepping away just before it could hit the sensitive areas of her face._

_She could feel the weight of the Doctor's gaze on her as she smoothed her wet hair back from her face, wringing it out. She finally stole a glance his way, but he quickly averted his eyes and stepped out of his stall, shaking himself out vigorously._

_Clara let out an utterly contented sigh, leaning against the wall of his stall, limbs like jelly. "I don't even know what that was, but honestly, you could probably ask me anything right now and I'd say yes."_

"_Are you finished?" The Doctor looked like he was trying to squeeze the life out of his shirt, knuckles turning white with the effort. _

"_Yeah, I'm good." The words drawled lazily out of her. She stuck out her toe, smiling as it caught at the pinwheel of coulours swirling down the drain in his stall. "Pretty," she decided._

"_Good," he replied, shoving past her roughly. "Because we need to move on. We can't stand around here all day." _

_Normally, such an abrupt switch to a curt tone would irk her, but she could only muster the energy to find it puzzling. "I'm ready when you are, Doctor. I told you, you could probably ask me to do anything you…"_

_But he was already several feet ahead of her, a distance he successfully maintained for the rest of their trip. _

"Clara? Did you want to get something?"

Her head snapped up. "Hmm?"

"It's like the third time you've looked at the menu, so I thought maybe you were hungry. We could get a starter if you want – anything look good to you?"

"Um…" She hadn't _really_ studied the menu, and it might look odd if she read it over for the fourth time. She passed it to him. "I'm good with whatever – you pick."

Their drinks arrived without much fanfare, though their waiter didn't miss the opportunity to peer through those bloody spectacles again when Frederick ordered them some potstickers and a side of chips. After their waiter had departed Frederick spent the next several minutes making up drink names that rhymed with "flapper," as if to somehow defend his earlier error. She found his devotion to the little game slightly odd, but then he informed her that his mate Thomas was a bartender and was always trying to come up with new drink names. Apparently, Frederick was extremely useful in this capacity, especially given his knowledge of the clientele. Clientele, she learned, that included him as a regular.

"Oh. So you go there a lot, then?"

"All the time. I'm practically a permanent fixture there on the weekends, especially when there's a match on."

"Right, a match! So you play football or - is it rugby?"

"Every once in a while, sure, but we mostly just watch."

"Oh." She set her glass down. "We?"

"Me and my mates. We all grew up around there, and most of us haven't left, so – why go someplace else? I mean – I've got everything I need right there: the pub, my mates, couple of pints, the match on. And my mum runs a shop in the square, so I'll pop over and see her." He shook his head, his smile easy. "She's always tellin' me to piss off and quit botherin' her, but I know she secretly likes it."

Clara gave him a smile perfected from years of forcing it onto her face whenever the subject came up. "That's nice."

"So are you close with your mum?"

She didn't even blink. "I was, yeah. Before she passed."

Her admission worked like gravity on his features, wiping the smile off his face and replacing it with that look she was all too familiar with. That mixture of horror, embarrassment, and pity. "Oh…" he stuttered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't –"

"It's okay. It was a while ago, nearly ten years now. I'm okay."

His visible grappling for a subject change was edging towards painfully awkward. "So uh, you didn't tell me about your most recent trip!"

She caught herself before her eyes could roll skyward. "Really, Frederick, it's okay –"

"No, no, I really want to hear about it! I mean, you haven't told me about too many of the places you've visited, and you know _I_ never go anywhere, right? So I'd love to hear about it! Really!"

She considered him, unable to decide if his overenthusiasm had nudged into endearing territory, or if it was still just painfully awkward. "Well, okay. If you _really_ want to know…"

"I do! I'm sure you've got loads and loads of stories, too!" He accentuated his over eagerness with another lean forward. "So what was your most recent trip? Did you go to Asia?"

"I did, actually." She mentally congratulated herself on looking this one up in case she was asked about it. "I went to India for the Festival of Colours. The Holi."

"Ohh, I've heard that's brilliant!" He pounded his fist on the table, nearly sending the contents of her drink over the sides. "I've been telling Gareth he's _got_ to take John – coming out of something looking like a Pride Parade lost its lunch on 'im? He'd _love_ it!"

Clara giggled. "That's what _I _said! See? You get it!" She pushed a finger at him. "That's why I wanted to take photos!"

Frederick's mouth dropped open in shock. "What? You didn't get any photos?!"

And just like that, she deflated. "No, no, we didn't." She cleared her throat. "We uh, had to leave our mobiles at the hotel. Y'know, so they didn't get ruined."

"But aren't there places to buy disposable cameras? I mean – they still have those, right?"

"Uh – they ran out. And, there were a lots of – people there, and it was a bit chaotic, and by the time we got back…"

"But couldn't you have taken the photos then?"

"No, we um – he wanted to get cleaned up first."

There was a long pause. "Oh." A very fake smile appeared on his face. "So you, uh, you travel with a bloke, then?"

"I really wouldn't call him a bloke - he's a lot older than me. Really. People sometimes mistake him for my _grandfather_," she muttered.

His nod was robotic. "Uh-huh."

"And –" she went on, "he's not even really so much a proper mate as a – colleague, I s'ppose. I mean, we don't really do things that mates do together, we don't really – we _aren't_ really…" She swallowed.

"Colleague? You mean, he's from work?"

Well, _that_ was a brilliant idea. "Yeah. Yeah! He was a – principal there for a while, but then he retired and started traveling. On his own. Not married, no family, and he – knew I liked to travel, and that's how it started."

This nod was slightly more fluid. "Okay."

"And he gets really great deals and plans all the trips and I don't have to worry about any of that, so – it works. It's a great arrangement, really. I get to see all these places I'd never see otherwise, do all these amazing things – and he doesn't have to travel alone."

Their starters arrived then, and the conversation turned mercifully away from her travels with the Doctor. She peppered Frederick with questions about his life, but there wasn't a whole lot for him to say: he really wasn't kidding when he'd declared that he had all he needed and didn't see a reason for leaving it. Or doing much else, for that matter. He went for a smoke, and she finished her second drink, nerves on edge. When she politely declined a third drink, he didn't look terribly surprised. Neither did the waiter when he asked for their check.

She accepted the offer to walk her home, but when he offered her his arm, she merely shifted her clutch more tightly to her chest, shaking her head with a breezy "I'm good, thanks."

They walked mostly in silence, though Frederick tried to make conversation about the patterns on the street lamps and the pronunciation of some of the street names. Clara managed one half-smile and a few affirmative responses, but mostly stared straight ahead, her mouth a stubborn straight line.

Like she was coming back from a funeral, and not a date.

They arrived at her front step, exchanging vague promises to meet up again. When he leaned in, she deliberately proffered her cheek in lieu of receiving that touch she had been so desperately craving. Thankfully he beat a hasty retreat after that, and she was finally alone.

She stumbled through her dark flat, finding her way to her bedroom, and closed the door with a weary sigh.

She refused to let loose the scream that was crawling its way up her throat.

Dating was _exhausting_, and she'd merely forgotten that. That's all it was.

It was confusing; it was frustrating; it was the promise of something held dangling before you, the promise of something that might make you smile or laugh or give you that warm, tingly feeling all over - that then vanished before your eyes.

Or was cruelly snatched back.

It was time for bed.

Dropping her clutch on her desk, she fumbled for the light switch, noting the dark form seated on her bed a beat too late to stifle her yelp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Please remember that this is a sequel to a previous story. If you haven't read Hold Onto Me, you may be mightily confused at some parts. You've been forewarned!

* * *

"Doctor!" She gave a start, hand flying to her chest. "God, you scared me! What are you doing here? You know it's still _this_ Thursday, right? It's not next Thursday yet."

He was eyeing her curiously, hands awkwardly held behind his back. "Yes, I know. How was your date?"

Clara blinked. "Um…fine," she stammered. "I mean, he was nice, I guess." She dropped her wrap on the desk. "What's going on?"

He looked at her for a moment before he withdrew his hands from behind his back and revealed the translator he'd given to her before he changed.

Clara's eyes widened, flicking to it and then back up to him. "What are you doing with that?"

"You still have it, I see."

She swallowed. "Well yeah. I didn't get rid of it."

He stroked one of its sides with the tip of his finger. "Do you listen to it?"

Clara shifted, suddenly keenly aware of her uncomfortable heels and her desire to be rid of them. "Yeah." She sat down on the chair, unstrapping them and flinging them to the floor, one at a time.

"Often?"

She massaged her foot, shrugging nonchalantly. "I dunno…sometimes."

There was the click of a button and his previous self's voice started streaming from it. It was cued to the beginning of the passage that always caused her to blush, especially with the way his gravelly voice deepened as he described the things he'd wanted to _do_ with her. She couldn't help the way her breath hitched as the Doctor let it run a few more seconds before stopping it abruptly. "You know it pretty well, then."

She shook her head. "What is this about?"

"You know it so well, you even knew which section it was."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're blushing."

She crossed her arms, bristling. "_You're_ the one who made it, Doctor. You can't blame me for something your previous self did."

"I'm not blaming you."

"So what's this about then?"

He looked thoughtful. "You've listened to this recording so many times that you know every word, but you've never asked _me_ about it. I suppose I wanted to know why."

Clara frowned. "Ask you about it? Why would I need to do that? Everything still translates okay."

"Yes, but…" His long fingers moved back and forth across his temple as though massaging a thought. "So you've never been curious then?"

"About?"

"Whether any of it is still true?"

She couldn't help the sound that escaped her mouth. "Don't need to ask about that."

"You don't?"

"'Course not." She got up and retrieved her wrap, folding it into quarters, her attention mercifully diverted for the moment.

"And why is that?"

She fingered the ends of one of the tassels, threading them through her fingers. "I know it isn't."

He was silent, his usual means of communicating confirmation. Then:

"Do you?"

It wasn't the question itself but his tone – so very soft, almost hushed – that halted her motions. "Yeah." She cleared her throat. "Yeah," she replied more firmly. "And it's okay, Doctor. I know that things have changed between us, and I accept that." She gave a little self-conscious laugh. "Why do you think I went on that date tonight?"

"How do you know things have changed? You've never asked me."

She shot him an incredulous look. "Because it's obvious. I mean, hearing those things you said – y'know, before you changed – none of it really – I dunno – surprised me? Cause before - it was pretty obvious. The way you were with me, I mean. Okay, except for maybe the bits about everything you um, _wanted_ with me." She felt her face flush, and she busied herself with tugging at her earrings, undoing their clasps and dropping them on the desk behind her. "Can't say I guessed any of that. But the rest – yeah."

"You keep saying it was obvious, but how?"

Clara took a steadying breath, trying to work out where he was going with all this. "Well, you were always…near me. Touching me. Or close to me. You admitted yourself that you'd even arranged to arrive in places where you'd have an excuse to." Now she bravely met his eyes. "But then you changed, and – it all went away. Which is _fine_, really. I'm okay with it." She gave him a tired smile.

His attention fell to the translator again. "You're usually the curious type, Clara. Wouldn't you rather have facts than operate entirely on assumptions?"

Her gaze hardened. "I told you, I don't need -"

"Or maybe you just don't want to hear it."

Her chin lifted defiantly, the challenge unmistakable. Their eyes locked for a few long seconds before Clara capitulated, throwing up her hands in defeat. "Fine. _Clearly_ this is something you want to talk about, and for some reason you _absolutely have to_ talk about it now, so whatever I have to do so I can go to sleep – I'll do."

She might've gone on, but there was something wrong about the Doctor's smile: it was tinged with a shroud of sadness or nostalgia. Her snarky reply shouldn't have made him look wistful.

"Okay," she said, her tone softened just a touch. "So – what is it you want me to ask?"

"You're asking me about the message I left you. Whether anything I said is still true."

"Right."

"And I promise, Clara…" There was definitely a wistful sadness settling into his face now. "After tonight, we never have to talk about this again. In fact, I'd prefer we didn't."

"You and me both," she muttered, shifting in her chair. "So – Doctor." She looked at him steadily. "Is any of what you said in that message to me still true?"

"Yes."

"What? Really?" Her mind raced as it replayed the message, combing through it for something she might possibly have missed in the thousand times she'd listened to it. "Which parts?"

He stood up and replaced the translator on her nightstand, staying there as he stared at it thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten about everything I'd said that day," he mused. "I made some very _impassioned_ declarations."

She nodded, casting her eyes downward as her cheeks reddened again. "Yeah, you did."

"Yes, I did," he repeated softly. "So, it's only fair…" He gave a world-weary sigh before turning back to her, hands jammed into his pockets. "Which parts are still true? All of them."

Clara huffed. "What?"

The Doctor just looked at her, silent as the grave.

Silent as if he was when confirming something that had been said, but –

"You're joking, right?" Her smile started to falter. She waited for his punchline – for his _gotcha_! – for the "except…"

But he said nothing, his gaze almost mournful.

"Doctor."

He gave a slight shake of his head. "No. I'm not joking."

Maybe he hadn't listened to the whole message. Maybe his Gallifreyan was rusty, and he'd forgotten the meaning of a word…or fifty. "All of them? _Everything_ you said is still true? You still feel _exactly_ the same? You still _want_ –"

"Yes." He silenced the end of her sentence with a meaningful look.

She gaped at him. "What? No…no - you've been so different. I mean you – you don't treat me the same way or take me to the same kinds of places – and half the time I don't think you even care what happens to me! And you _never_ touch me. You don't even go _near_ me anymore! And when you do, you act like it _disgusts_ you, like you _hate_ it!"

His hands jerked within his pockets, as if recreating one of those times. "It doesn't disgust me. And I don't act that way because I hate it, Clara."

"Then _why_?"

He struggled to maintain their eye contact and lost. "Because I _don't _hate it….because I like it." He paused. "A lot."

"You…_like_ it."

"That's what I said."

"Yeah, I heard what you _said, _but I'm honestly wondering if maybe you've actually finally gone senile in your old age."

Her age-related jab prompted a grimace from him, but he didn't fire back. "You don't believe me."

"How could I? I dunno…I honestly don't know _what_ to believe. All this time…_all_ this time, and you never said anything. You never let on – you never…" She trailed off, her mind racing too fast for her words to keep up.

"I didn't think you'd be this upset."

This only fanned the flames of her ire. "You didn't think I'd be upset?" She was practically shaking. "So let me get this straight, yeah? You left me that message – said all those things, then you _snogged_ me like your life depended on it, and then you changed. Started acting different. Started behaving like none of what you'd said or felt or did was in any way a part of you – like _none_ of that was you anymore. Not even after the -" She had to take a moment, unable to keep her voice from shaking now. "Not even after the Gruhflane."

He winced. "Clara…"

She pinned him with her glare, furious tears in her eyes. "Got an explanation for that, Doctor? Why I had to _beg_ you to hug me? After the _hell _I went through on Oalogtu?" One streaked down her face. "And even when you finally did, it was like you couldn't stand it. Like you couldn't wait to get away from me, and yet you're telling me now that it was because you _liked_ touching me?!" Her face was wet now as she strode towards him, fully aware that he was backed against the bed with nowhere to go. "_That doesn't make any sense_!"

"I _wanted_ you to move on," he shot back. "I wanted you to date men your age – you _should_ be dating men your age, Clara."

She brought her hands up to her head, scrunching them against her temples. "No – you – _what_ does that have to do with hugging me?! I needed a _friend,_ Doctor – you couldn't even be a friend to me?"

"No," he replied quietly. "And that's why I didn't."

Her arms wrapped around herself, trying to summon the memory of his embrace that she'd once been so accustomed to – one that was so familiar to her she'd never have imagined it could vanish so quickly. "When I came back from Trenzalore, from your Tomb – the last time I went through something like that, you…_held_ me like you'd never let me go."

Something between nostalgia and regret passed over his face.

She walked up to him slowly, voice softened by the lump lodged in her throat. "But if what you say is true, if you really still…" She could barely bring herself to say the next word, and it came out choked -"_love_ me…as much as you did then…then _why_ couldn't you just hug me? Just once – when you knew I needed it?"

"Because," he began, his own voice trembling with emotion. "Because I could never have hugged you just _once_. Because if I had held you…I might really _never_ have let you go."

"And what would have been so bad about that?" She whispered.

He started to say something but thought better of it, casting his glance off the side and shaking his head.

"Well…" She wiped at her face with the back of her hand. "Then you owe me a hug. I mean – you owe me a _lot_ more than that, but for now, you owe me a hug." The look in her eyes dared him to protest as she slowly laced her arms around his midsection, waiting for him to follow suit.

At first he was as warm and comfortable as a marble statue, weighing her further with doubt. But then he gave in, arms falling around her shoulders lightly.

"A _hug_, Doctor. That means you actually have to do more than just -"

"Yes, I'm aware." He retorted, sliding one arm higher and the other lower.

She rested her cheek against his chest, hearing that familiar double-thump of his hearts, a sound she hadn't heard in far too long – and that she'd given up hope of ever hearing again. Rubbing her head back and forth, she squeezed tighter, feeling him practically vibrate with tension. Honestly, this wasn't helping. If he was trying to prove that he was still the same man who'd shown her eleven times a day just how smitten he was with her, he was failing miserably. She was back to actively questioning his sanity, one of a few possibilities for what seemed nothing more than an elaborate charade, when all of a sudden, she felt it.

It was subtle at first, just a light pressure of his fingers between her shoulder blades and at the small of her back, a whisper of something. Like he was actually trying to compensate, turn this into a proper hug where you _held_ the person. But then – a slow tightening of the muscles, an increase of pressure, and – the unmistakable digging sensation of his fingers as they dragged across, hands moving in opposite directions, finding the edge of her shoulders and the tip of her waist. The slight tremor to his exhalation as he did so…

But…this couldn't _actually_ be happening, could it? Was her mind playing tricks on her? She tested her theory, letting a hand move lazily up his back, stroking it gently. Then she lifted her cheek from his chest, letting her head come forward, raising it the slightest bit to brush her nose against his lapel.

He went absolutely still.

She froze, too, ready to offer a hasty excuse and extricate herself. But then – the pressure of his fingers again, digging enough that it almost felt like a grasp. His exhalation _so_ close to a gasp.

She didn't know what she was doing anymore, as her fingers seemed to curve of their own volition, letting her change the stroking to a light glide of her short nails up his back.

And that was definitely a shudder now.

"Clara…"

Her name shouldn't have sounded quite so enticing – it should've broken the spell; her name uttered like a warning, because it _was_.

She raised her head then and looked into his face – and that should've broken the spell, too, because this was _not_ the face she preferred. But it was the face that loved her, the face that loved her just like the last face; that just like the last face, she was the windsong of his hearts – that just like the last face…

…he wanted her.

She didn't know what she was doing anymore as she withdrew her hands from behind his back, as she reached for his lapels, as she pulled herself up and him down, as she closed her eyes and kissed him.

Their lips met and stayed there, unmoving, as though neither of them could think of anything else to do – or were too overwhelmed to do much else. His lapels grasped in her white-knuckled grip, his hands moving from her back to cup her elbows, his hold just as fierce, as though he were caught between pulling her into him and pushing her back.

They broke apart abruptly, breathing shakily into the air between them. He opened his mouth to say something, but she laid a hand on his chest, silencing him.

"You're not done yet," she informed him, feeling slightly giddy at the command in her voice. She gave him a light shove, and he fell back onto the bed.

"Clara, we're not –"

"Relax – I just need you to shove over."

He didn't budge. "Why?"

"Because you're going to hold me properly – so lie back."

His fingers drummed against the side of the bed like he was considering. Then he gave a small grunt of reluctant agreement, scooting himself back. He tried and failed to maintain a semi-upright position, finally conceding to the arrangement of her pillows.

She perched on the edge of the bed whilst he got comfortable, then slid herself up to join him. Laying on her side, she folded herself alongside him, hand draping across his chest, head falling onto the spot over one of his hearts.

But she quickly discovered that there would be no holding as long as her hair was populated with hairpins. Several attempts to reposition her head only resulted in other edges of the long, hard metal pressing into her skull, until she finally had to sit up and fish her fingers behind her head to locate the culprits.

"What's wrong?"

"Just gimme a minute."

She really needed a mirror for some of these, especially with such an elaborate up-do. There also seemed to be about four times as many as she'd originally put in…

"Let me help you with those."

There was something else about how they'd be here all night otherwise, but his fingers joined hers, working at the pins and dropping them onto her nightstand with a soft _clink_. They worked in tandem for a while, but then their fingers met as they both pulled at the same pin. This tug of war lasted a few seconds until Clara realised what was transpiring.

"Doctor, I've got it."

"Don't be ridiculous – you can't see what you're doing."

Perhaps it was his offer to help, brusque style notwithstanding, or perhaps it was the feel of his fingers against her scalp, but whatever the reason she let her hands fall. She felt him shift closer behind her, muttering something about how now he could _finally_ see what he was doing, and then he was quiet again. Quiet except for the sound of his breathing, which fluttered across her neck from time to time as he moved from one side to the other. She almost gave him a reminder to be careful not to tug too hard, to be gentle – but then he started to uncoil each of her curls and the reminder died somewhere in her throat.

For a man of his mind, his genius mind, who had lived and died as many lifetimes as he had, it seemed entirely unlikely that he would take such time and care with an action as simple as unrolling every section of her pinned curls. Especially when that action was completely unnecessary without the presence of the pins to keep it in place.

Yet there he was: slowly, _painstakingly_ unraveling every curl, setting it carefully to the side before beginning another section; threading that strand through his long fingers, letting them trail to the bottom of it, knuckle just grazing her neck every time.

Making her breath catch every time.

Which she knew he'd heard. Every time.

Somehow, impossibly, he eased his tempo as he undid more and more of her hair, his pace so agonisingly slow that by the time it was all hanging down her neck, her mouth had dropped open and her eyes had fallen shut. He ran his fingers through one last time, gathering it together in his hands and sliding it off to the side of her head, baring one half of her neck.

Which now clued her into their proximity, if the hot breath she felt there was any indication.

Like the inexorable force of a magnet, she felt herself leaning back into him, she: the positive pole; he the negative one. Centimetre by centimetre, she let her head drop to the side of her gathered hair, ear cushioned by the mounds of unraveled curls. Leaving her neck completely exposed.

There was no change at first, as the invitation lay there completely unfulfilled, and the seconds ticked on with them locked in this stalemate. She slowly opened her eyes, ready to say something or move or otherwise pretend that this wasn't what it had become, when all of a sudden there was the sensation of a flood of warm breath on her neck, making her shiver, and then – finally – his lips.

A breathy exhale escaped her mouth at the first press of them, tentative - like a feather against her skin. The next was in a different spot, closer to the nape of her neck, along her hairline, accompanied by the light pressure of his fingertips curling around her shoulders. The third kiss fell along her pulse point, lasting a fraction of a second longer than the last, his waft of breath trailing along towards her ear. She could feel him pause there, and then, another kiss, more open-mouthed than the previous two, just under her earlobe.

She couldn't help her little sigh, which turned into a gasp as he stayed there, hot breath washing over her lobe. When she felt the wet tip of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, she nearly lost it, whole body shuddering as she unthinkingly reached a hand behind her to grab at his neck, bringing him flush to her back. He uttered something close to a growl at the contact, expelling hot air on her ear again, which only made her arch her back into him.

For some reason, this stopped the delicious exploration of her ear so that instead of his tongue, she got words.

"Clara, we can't do this."

It seemed he was destined to spout several nonsensical things tonight.

"Why not?" came her breathy reply.

He gave a long sigh, annoyingly closing his mouth so that she felt none of it. "Because I meant what I said. You should date men your age."

She teased the back of his neck with her fingertips. "Not really thinking about other men right now, Doctor…" She heard him let out a gasp as she let a nail dig in a bit.

"I mean it. This can't go any further."

She smiled a sultry smile he couldn't see, pitching her voice low. "Then stop," she taunted, letting her fingers continue their dance.

All of a sudden his fingers fell from her shoulders, and he shifted away from her.

Her eyes snapped open at the loss of heat and contact. "I wasn't serious!"

He eyed her from the other side of the bed. "I was. I'll hold you, but we can't do any more than that."

She scoffed, turning back to face him, crossing her arms. "And why not?"

"I already told you why."

"Yeah, I heard that rubbish answer. But even if it'd been me instead of my Gallifreyan echo when you were at your youngest, you'd _still_ have been about 575 years too old for me."

He folded his hands calmly atop his chest. "All the more reason to stop, then."

She let out a noise of exasperation. "_Or_ how about I should be the one to decide who I choose to date!"

"The fact that I'm trying to decide for you should clue you in to how bad an idea it would be to pursue anything further with me."

She had to stop herself from punching the bed at his smug tone, hands clenching into fists at how easily he'd flipped the tables and wormed his way under her skin. Especially when she _far_ preferred the effect he had on _top_ of her skin. Scooting herself back again, she propped herself on her elbow, studying his face.

He held his arms out in invitation. "Where were we?"

She ignored him, raising a finger to trace the lines on his forehead, the corners of her mouth lifting when the first contact caused his eyes to slide shut, a breath escaping from his lips.

"What are you doing?"

She continued her exploration, letting her finger learn the lines and grooves in his forehead, his temples, his cheeks… "Never been this close to your face before – not this one, anyway. I think it's one of your more interesting ones, actually." She let it graze over his chin, stubble pricking her finger. "Chin's a lot more proportional." Her smile was bittersweet.

His eyes flew open, seeking hers out. "Do you miss the old me?"

It felt like a trick question. She sighed, cupping his face earnestly. "I missed _you_, Doctor." She kissed him in the centre of his forehead, like he used to. "I missed being close to you…" She kissed his temple, moving slowly down the side of his face, retracing the path her finger had taken. His leathery skin was actually surprisingly soft and supple. She let her kisses become lazier as she moved to his cheeks, drawing what sounded like a sigh of contentment from him. "I missed knowing you'd be there for me…" She laid a trail of kisses down the side of his jaw, kissing around his less prominent chin, letting her lips come tantalisingly close to his. "I missed being loved by you…"

With his eyes shut again, she chanced a kiss on his lips, soft and no longer than a few seconds, seeing if he would react. When he didn't bolt or push her to the other side of the bed, she tried again, letting her lips stay there a little longer, until she finally felt his move under hers, warming to the kiss. It stayed slow and lazy, nothing hurried about it, but then she seized on an opportunity to dart her tongue forward, finding the edge of his, and he hissed into her mouth, hands going to her head. She let her chest fall onto his, her body needing more friction, one of her hands toying with his buttons. He wrapped an arm around her waist, then, rolling them over so she was on her back.

She sighed into his mouth as she felt the long length of his body on top of hers at last. His mouth tore from hers, starting a trail of frantic kisses along the side of her face, finding her neck again and moving lower still. She clutched the back of his head as he trailed sloppy kisses along her collarbone, the contrast between the light scratch of his stubble and the soft wetness of his tongue making her moan. She arched her back into him, seeking more contact, trying to send a rather unsubtle message of where, exactly, she wanted his tongue next. He seemed to get her meaning, head moving lower to where the tops of her breasts spilled out from the cut of her dress, thumbs hooking underneath the straps to pull the top down even further. But the corseted cut of the dress refused to cooperate, so she hastily pushed him off, sitting up so he could access the zipper that ran down the back.

"Here," she stated breathlessly. "It's practically melded to my body, trust me – you have to unzip it."

His hands automatically went around her back, finding the zipper. She felt him grasp it between his thumb and forefinger and then, for some reason, he laid his palm flat against it instead.

"No." He turned from her, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to her. He bowed his head, breath still coming fast. "We can't do this, Clara."

She slid towards him, draping both arms around his chest from behind, chin coming to rest on his collarbone. "What do I have to do, Doctor…" she began, turning her head so she was nosing his cheek, his ear, her lips following. "…to convince you that I _want_ this?" She kissed his cheek softly, moving lower to his ear, nibbling on the sensitive flesh there. "That I want you?"

He moaned softly, grabbing onto her arms. "You don't. But I told you…we can't do this," he managed in between hisses of breath.

Clara hummed into his ear at that. "Yeah, you keep saying that…and yet…" She let a hand trail down his chest, past his navel, running her fingertips over the noticeable bulge in his trousers, smirking at the tell-tale wet spot. "I think we can."

He cursed under his breath, grip tightening on her arms as he rocked back into her. "No," he choked out, words clearly getting more and more difficult. "You have to stop."

Clara made some sort of noncommittal noise, as she was currently far more interested in the space between his neck and his collar, unbuttoning the top button to gain better access. "So stop me, then," she purred.

Suddenly he seized her wrists, unhooking her arms from around his chest and pinning them to the bed. Then he abruptly stood, upsetting her balance so she had to shoot a hand out to prevent herself from falling.

She gaped at him for the second time that night. "You can't be serious."

He hung his head, but he stayed where he was. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "No." She stared at his back, burning holes through it, willing him to turn around. "Doctor."

Though she could still hear his breathing, there was something final in the sight of his back. Like a tall, inverted exclamation point, his silver head that stubbornly refused to turn her way the point of it. Signaling an ending.

She swung her legs over the end of the bed to get up, but then stopped. Why should _she_ be the one who had to move? She was wearing a revealing black dress with spaghetti straps, her hair sexily tousled, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from their kisses, and still breathing heavily.

She should _NOT_ have to get up.

But she could hear his breathing returning to normal, and he still hadn't turned around. He hadn't moved towards her door, either, but it was becoming clear that the only way to get his attention was to say something he couldn't ignore.

What could she say, though?

Sexy invitations clearly weren't working and throwing empty threats his way would be about as effective as throwing them at a stone wall. She could plead with him, but now that she knew just what he felt for her and wanted of her, the notion of her _pleading_ with him to rejoin her on her bed was absolute bollocks.

So she couldn't – _wouldn't_ – get up and she couldn't think of anything to say.

She also _would not_ cry. Despite the beginnings of a lump that had formed in her throat at her frustration – _frustrations_….at the ultimately unfulfilling and less than exciting date; at this back-and-forth with the Doctor; at all the time that she'd felt unwanted and unloved – she wouldn't cry.

But she had to do _something_.

Something to get his attention.

Something he couldn't ignore.

A mad idea struck her. It was risky…but she was willing to gamble.

And it's not like she had anything to lose at this point anyway.

So she slowly shifted, settling onto her back. She took her time, fanning her hair out, and letting a strap of her dress fall down. Making just enough noise to pique his interest.

All this time, she'd thought he'd hated touching her, hated even being near her. And now he'd revealed that it was just the opposite - yet he _still _refused to be near her now? _Still_ refused to touch her?

Fine.

She would touch herself, then.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Hello, my lovely readers! Just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for the reviews, follows, and favorites - I so appreciate it! Honestly, I love hearing any thoughts/opinions you have to offer, so don't be shy (even if it's a keyboard smash, or incoherent rambling in all caps – I encourage it all. :-p) The rating has changed – and hopefully that doesn't come as a shock. ;) Enjoy!

* * *

"Clara…what are you doing?"

"What does it sound like?" Her words were breathy, though there was still a clench to her jaw that wouldn't relax. She focused all her anger, her months of rejection, her pent-up _frustrations_ into her nimble fingers, moving them around inside her knickers. Back and forth; up and down. The occasional circles. She was plenty wet already; this shouldn't take long.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder.

"You're….no, you…you can't…"

It was like an invisible thread had materialised between her fingers and his head, which kept jerking back and forth in a quarter turn, then a half turn, and finally, a full turn, the rest of his body following.

Her lips tugged upward at her victory, eyes falling shut. "It's my room, my body, and what I want right now. If it makes _you_ uncomfortable, you're free to go."

She heard the creaking of the floorboards underneath his feet as he probably shifted his weight from side to side, a gesture entirely unusual for a Doctor who always knew what he wanted. It would've been far more fitting of his former self.

Although _that_ face would've bolted from the room with a yelp the second he'd figured it out. Not that she would have ever done this in front of him, of course.

Well…not that she ever thought she'd do this in front of the Doctor, period. But this wasn't about _him_. This was about what _she_ needed; he could bloody well do whatever he wanted.

And that's when she felt a weight shift the bed, startling her eyes open and momentarily suspending her motions.

Tiny beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead, but that was the only indication that the Doctor was in any way affected. He didn't look at her face, focusing his gaze instead on the motion of her fingers.

Or perhaps…just the part of the body to which she was administering.

Emboldened by this half-capitulation, she used her next motion to draw her knickers over her hips, letting them rest at her knees. As if taunting him further with the visual reminder that she was now naked under her dress.

"Care to help me, Doctor?" She queried casually, her challenge unmistakable.

But he remained motionless, back stiff, hands gripping his thighs. He swallowed. Staring.

"Or maybe you'd like to join me in a different way."

His hands balled into fists, dragging the material of his trousers with them. Was she vexing him? Pestering him? She smirked, her fingers working a mite faster. Rubbing the Doctor the wrong way was rubbing her just the right way. Her smirk widened to a self-satisfied grin.

There was a rustle of fabric as he reached inside his jacket pocket with shaking fingers and withdrew…his sonic?

The sight of it had a paralysing effect, halting her mid-stroke. Her whole body tensed in a different way, and confusion quickly gave way to distrust.

"What are you doing?" It was her turn to ask.

He ignored her question, gripping the instrument and twisting it a few times, his thumb clearly flicking through settings. He found what he was looking for and nonchalantly rested the sonic on his leg.

"Doctor, what are you –"

She was abruptly cut off as a warm, vibrating pulse hit her, wrenching a gasp from her throat.

She stared at him in open-mouthed wonder, but he was fixated on his sonic again, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he fiddled with it. No longer trying to hide what he was doing, he seemed to be testing it, aimed it at her openly – and this time it was a double-pulse.

Clara let out a cry and parted her legs a little, an open invitation for _more, please, yes_, and she may have voiced these exact thoughts as her fingers slid downward, coming to rest at the tops of her thighs. Letting him take the reins, but poised to resume should he falter.

Another adjustment – another flick – and a triple-pulse.

She let out a throaty groan, instinctively reaching for him. As if his touch was what she needed to ground her to reality, to confirm it _was_ reality and she wasn't dreaming or hallucinating.

But he was seated just shy of her reach, his body betraying little, save for the slight droop of his lower lip as he made yet another adjustment, his breaths audible. He muttered something as the sonic made a beep of protest, then slapped it in his palm as if to make it obey.

The next flick was made with something of a flourish, his motion no longer casual. Then he finally locked eyes with her – and let loose a series of pulses that didn't end.

They waxed and waned; sometimes single, sometimes double, varying in intensity, in time, in length, in measure. They pushed Clara to the edge and back again, her legs crooking, hands grabbing (though again, only receiving a handful of bedspread as he stayed just out of her reach), hips rocking, cries intensifying, neck arching until – sweet release at last! – the vibrations were joined by her own as she shook, muscles quivering and quaking, until she quieted and finally looked back at the Doctor.

He'd never looked more terrified.

She wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty brow, giving a few forceful exhalations whilst her breathing calmed. "That was…" she managed in between breaths. A surprised and relieved laugh trilled out of her. "Blimey, that was –"

"Too much."

He was off her bed like a shot, the sonic pocketed as he paced to the end of her room and back. "That was too much – too much – I let it go too far."

Clara wriggled all the way out of her knickers, kicking them off the bed as she rose. She strolled on jelly-like limbs to her open cupboard door, surveying the contents with a world-weary sigh as the Doctor continued his pacing behind her.

He hadn't stopped his muttering, either. "It's too late now. It's much too late. It's just…too late," he repeated as if the words would magically undo all that had just transpired.

She shook her head sadly, but she couldn't muster the energy to argue with him again. "Yeah, well, I'm gonna change. You can do – whatever you want." She drew her hair away from where it clung to her neck so she could get at her zipper, letting her head fall forward.

The pacing had finally stopped, the Doctor quiet, save for the sounds of his agitated breathing.

She rolled her neck from side to side, working out a kink. "So like I said – I'm about to _get naked_. If you don't wanna see that, then you should leave. We can talk later." She massaged a point at the top of her left shoulder blade, setting a handful of hair off to the side, fingers brushing against the zipper of her dress. She reached for the zipper –

-and gasped as an arm suddenly enclosed her from behind. For one tense second, she thought he was trying to physically _stop_ her from changing, even as he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling like it was his last breath of oxygen. Even as she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck, his mouth grazing her earlobe.

But then she felt her zipper pulling down.

His mouth followed, trailing a series of progressively more open-mouthed kisses down her back. She braced herself against the door, surprised gasps turning to moans as he followed the parting tines lower and lower, her dress falling in a black puddle around her feet. He was on his knees now, long fingers latched onto her hips, his mouth sweeping ever lower with clearly no intention of stopping as he came to her arse. All prior discomfort had apparently evaporated as he only picked up speed, baptising each cheek with a trail of kisses.

Then he spun her about, the motion entirely unexpected, and Clara grabbed his shoulders to steady herself. He didn't miss a beat, peppering her stomach with kisses. "Like a flower to the sun," he murmured. "You are my sun, Clara." He started moving lower and Clara let out a mewl of anticipation. "So I'll burst into flames – I don't care. Spontaneous combustion." He shifted, shoving his legs back so his mouth was right over her. "Watch me burn."

And then his mouth was on her, one long, slow kiss. He laved at her, sucking hungrily, growls sounding from his throat to mix with her cries.

Her limbs already weakened, Clara struggled to stay upright, trying to anchor herself between his shoulders and the cupboard door. But she was losing her battle, sliding down as the Doctor continued his delicious assault on her. "Doctor," she gasped, "can we – _oh_ – maybe move to…" She jerked her head in the vague direction of her bed, hoping he'd get the message. "My legs are – _oh God!_ – they're not gonna…"

Suddenly she was being pulled as he hooked his arms underneath her shoulders and lifted her onto her desk. Grateful though her leg muscles were, she scrambled for purchase as she knocked her wrap, clutch, earrings and a jar of pens and pencils to the floor, which clattered loudly as they scattered across the floorboards. The Doctor wasn't distracted in the slightest, however: if anything he seemed emboldened as he pulled her to the edge of the desk, hitching her legs over his shoulders.

But it was too much forward momentum and Clara grabbed at the edges, hard corners cutting into her palms. "Doctor," she managed, "I actually – _ohh – _meant the bed, I'm – _oh GOD – _I can't…"

He stopped, peering up at her, laser focus searing in its intensity.

As a few panicked seconds ticked by, she wondered if she'd ruined everything. Had she broken the spell? Would he stop _now_, of all times?

But then he slowly rose to his feet, the burn cooling a notch or two. He swooped down, lifting her up again so that she had to wrap her legs around his waist to hold on. He swung them around towards the bed, but inexplicably stopped at the foot of it.

Clara's legs protested, the muscles starting to quiver. "Doctor?"

Though his hold definitely felt sturdy enough to keep her up, it grew minutely tighter. She heard him inhale, murmuring something she couldn't quite catch.

"What was that?"

His only reply was to lay her down, gently, with more control than he'd exhibited up to this point. She let out a sigh of contentment as her muscles unlocked, finally able to relax. She reached a hand behind her back and unhooked the clasp of her bra, shoving it off the bed to join her knickers on the floor – leaving herself completely naked under that heated gaze.

He hovered over her, pausing again. Instead of focusing on her newly exposed skin, he seemed far more intent on her face, reaching a tentative hand out, drawing it across her forehead and catching a handful of her hair between his fingers. He repeated the gesture several times, spreading it out on her pillow, his other hand joining to work in tandem. Then he trailed his long fingers down the side of her face, her neck, gliding over her shoulder, down her arm, brushing the pads of his fingers across her palm, around her wrist. He grasped her hand between his and turned it over, pressing soft kisses between each of her knuckles; then he moved to her other hand and did the same.

He shifted, leaning over her. Clara reached for his lapels in an effort to connect with him again, but he evaded her, both hands now trailing up her arms, tracing along her collarbone, curling as they reached her breasts. He cupped them, lightly kneading, then ran his knuckles over her stomach, around the curve of her hips, flattening as they drew down her legs, palms tracing the muscles in her thighs and calves. He ended with her feet, thumbs lightly circling her instep. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face when she giggled at that.

Was it just a trick of the light? Or was that a shadow falling over his face? Regardless, it vanished as his eyes slowly traveled up her body and met with hers. They stared at each other a moment.

"You okay?" Her smile was tentative.

He immediately dropped his head, exhaling as though her question had caused him unspeakable grief. "Just taking it all in," he murmured.

The length of the interlude was starting to make her antsy. "Do you wanna join me?" she offered.

The Doctor shook his head. "Not yet." Then he leaned forward, clasping her knees, tucking his hands underneath. He bent over each knee, pressing kisses to both the top and the underside. Then he knelt at the foot of the bed, hands gripping her upper thighs to finally scoot her back down towards his waiting mouth.

It was like he was starting over from the very beginning – every flick of his tongue a tender stroke, a caress… Little sips, as if he was savouring an expensive brandy.

The new pace was initially frustrating, but Clara gradually relaxed, letting her thoughts disappear. She finally caught his hands, interlacing her fingers through his and squeezing tight.

_This is the Doctor. The Doctor is doing this…_

The intimacy of their clench washed over her, and it was enough to throw her head back, eyes falling shut. The Doctor wanted her. This was the same man as his previous bowtied self, whose hair would be falling over those green eyes as he knelt before her, whose usually restless fingers would be still in her grasp. And, at her next cry, he might let out a low chuckle against her and utter a gravelly _ohh, Clara…_

It was enough to send her over the edge as she let out a shuddering cry, answering the image in her mind. "Ohh, Doctor," she whispered in reply, opening her eyes to find grey-blue instead of green locked onto hers.

She smiled wide for him, letting out some kind of hiccup as her breathing hitched in an unexpected way. "That was just…wow, that was…"

She trailed off as he brought a hand to her face, gliding the tips of his fingers across her cheeks. "You're crying, Clara."

"What? No, I'm not." She laughed shakily. "That's just sweat."

"Sweat is leaking from your eyes, then."

She hastily brushed a hand across her face, confirming that she was, indeed, crying. "Well, that's because of you – I mean, that…that was intense." She smiled again, fingering his lapel. "So," she drew out the word. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes."

Something akin to a thrill shot through her. "Oh, really? And what's that?"

He slowly unbuttoned his jacket, shrugging out of it.

Clara's heart kicked up a notch, her mouth gone dry.

Then he laid his jacket across her shoulders, pulling it as tightly as it would allow across her chest. "You can let me hold you." He shifted onto his back. "I believe that was your original request, yes?"

"Yeah, but think you've repaid that debt, Doctor. Twice over, I'd say." She smirked.

"Well – then this is what _I_ want."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." He held his arms out. "Come lie with me, Clara. Please?"

Still bewildered, she arranged herself around him, settling onto his chest. His hand immediately stole to the back of her head, long fingers lightly massaging her scalp. She sighed into the touch. "I just don't want you to think –"

"Hush. I don't want _you_ to think," he countered softly. "Just relax." He continued stroking her hair, thumbs finding her temples. "No more thinking. Relax."

His touch was so soothing, so comforting, his embrace so welcoming, that despite her efforts to voice her insistence that they needed to talk about this, that there were things that should be discussed –

- she was soon asleep.

* * *

It was 3:37 AM.

That was the first thing Clara noticed.

The second was her head.

_Ow. OW._

The third was -

_Something's wrong._

She abruptly sat up in bed, wincing at the motion. Her vision swam a bit as it felt like her brain banged around inside her skull a few times before stilling. Rubbing a hand against her temple, she did a quick once-over of her room.

There was hardly anything remarkable about it. She'd been so eager to get out of her dress she'd uncharacteristically left it on the floor by her cupboard. The same was true of her bra and knickers, lying together in a heap on the floor. But her wrap was folded neatly in quarters, her clutch on top, and her earrings glinted in the low light next to the little pile. So apparently she'd tried to put things away when she got in but soon gave up, shedding her clothing on her way to bed.

But then she'd…apparently changed into a t-shirt. Or maybe she'd done that before she got to bed?

She flicked her tongue across her teeth experimentally, grimacing at the result. She'd even been too tired to brush her teeth.

Normally, she would remedy that straightaway, but she groaned in protest when she tried to move her head, stunned by the incessant ringing pain. She conceded defeat and flopped back on her pillow, pressing at her temples.

Maybe she should try to sleep.

Sighing, she turned over, pulling the sheet up to her chin. An errant thought hit her, snapping her eyes open:

_The Doctor. He…_

What about him?

Oh. Right. She'd seen him before her date. Wasn't going to see him for a week. At least Frederick hadn't thought she was going to a funeral. She huffed.

No, but…wasn't there something else?

She frowned, flipping onto her back. Well…he hadn't reacted to the news of her date. Maybe that bothered her.

But why? That was hardly surprising. Things were different now, and she accepted that. His lack of acknowledgement was hardly unexpected.

She chanced another look at the clock. 3:42. She should really sleep. Sighing, she closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

_But…the Doctor…_

She groaned, pulling the sheet over her head as if she could shield herself from her runaway thoughts. Out of all the possible worries in her life, _he_ certainly wasn't going to be the one to keep her up at night.

But the Doctor stubbornly refused to vacate her thoughts, her mind inexplicably clinging to him as she tossed and turned. When she finally achieved sleep, it was restless and troubled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **My dear readers, thank you SO much for all your wonderful feedback - your reviews, your PM's, your follows and favorites. I have been a bit shocked at how people have taken to this story, truly. It has been wonderful to see.

Now a bit of a personal note: though there are only a few chapters left, I may not be able to update as regularly as I would like to going forward (I've been averaging 1/week)- or reply to all your wonderful, thorough and thought-provoking reviews (as I usually reply to every signed-in one!) I have been dealing with incapacitating health issues recently, and they unfortunately continue to plague me. I do not know how long they will last (today has been a blessed respite), but please know that the story is planned out to the end, to the very last line, and it WILL get posted - but it just may take me more time. But please know that I appreciate every thought, opinion, demand (heh :-p), keyboard smash, and question you leave me - even if I can't reply to it. So thank you again and without further ado - enjoy! :)

* * *

There was no escape.

Even after he'd shed his jacket, smelling of freesia – sandalwood – _no _– shoving it down the chute, and not even waiting for the _hiss!_ _whop! ping! _that sounded as the bath of chemicals went to work, a sound that used to delight him enough to warrant a kind of "laundry dance" in his former days and that still tugged at the corners of his mouth in this body –

Even after he'd stripped completely, standing in the shower that stayed stubbornly cold, despite his mental and verbal commands that he wanted it hot enough to boil, wanted his skin to gleam, red and raw –

Even after he'd smeared his teeth with the strongest flavour of toothpaste, scrubbed his tongue until it tingled, gargled with extra strength mouth wash developed by the Keraseek, guaranteed to rid your mouth of any taste to the point of numbness –

Clara was everywhere.

There she was, curled up in a chair twice her size in the library, snuggling down into the cushions and the well-worn divots created by all his hours in the same chair; there she was in the corridor, running with him through a wrecked TARDIS, holding tightly to his hand and trusting he would lead them to safety; there she was in the swimming pool, dark hair trailing behind her as she floated on her back and inquired about the constellations overhead; there was she was outside his bedroom door, hand poised mid-air to knock when he'd thrown it open after a brooding sulk, when he'd made _quite clear_ that he was not to be disturbed, and, like usual, she'd refused to listen –

It seemed the Universe had decreed its punishment for him. After all, what could be more fitting for the crime of taking a part of her mind into his own without her permission?

Because now she was destined to haunt him.

And unfortunately…the Universe wasn't the only one determined to punish him.

He hadn't noticed it at first. When a strong gust of air rushed at him, pushing him back as he entered the TARDIS – he was so preoccupied with his roiling thoughts that it barely registered. The strange case of the shower growing progressively _colder_ the more he asked for _hot_ – he attributed to something mucking up the system (and was a momentary distraction to check on the backup water supply commands). Even when he'd settled in for an activity bound to occupy him, to take up at least half his brain (well, maybe not half – but a good sizable chunk anyway) – rewiring the primary buffer so it didn't keep making that irritating rattling sound – the shower of sparks didn't faze him. Sparks were rather commonplace when it came to repairs after all.

Electrical shocks, however, were a different matter entirely.

He lunged backwards, upsetting his satchel of tools and spilling them every which way. A singed smell wafted over him, and the roots of his hair tingled.

"What is it with you?!" He bellowed, the top of his scalp still burning. "What's got you in such a strop?!"

A sharp _snap_ echoed around the room, as an image crackled into existence. The Doctor instinctively held up a hand, shielding himself from those familiar eyes that were completely devoid of their usual spitfire.

"You took Donna Noble's memory, Doctor," the Donna image intoned. "But you took Donna's memory to save her life. Whose life were you saving tonight?"

He scoffed, his hand returning to his side. "_That's_ what you're all huffy about? I find it _extremely_ difficult to believe that _you_ would have any problem with it."

The image wavered for a few seconds as if considering.

"Maybe you'll listen to someone with the same ridiculous accent, then." The image had changed, and Amy Pond stared sightlessly over his head. "Would that convince you?"

Seeing his two former feisty ginger companions without their proper fire was enough to tug painfully at his hearts as it was.

But with his current companion already on his mind, well...he really wasn't in the mood for _more_ haunting.

So the Doctor knelt down, busying himself with gathering up the scattered tools and stuffing them in his satchel. "I'm not listening to this." He threw them in haphazardly and shoved the satchel back into its compartment. "Here I was going to do something nice for you, but not if you're going to carry on like this." He stalked up the steps and was met with his former self on the way.

"Does it need to be you, then?" The tall, bowtie-clad man queried disinterestedly. "You used to do anything to protect Clara. What changed?"

The Doctor let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, I'm _definitely_ not listening to _you_." He deliberately walked through the image out of spite. "And I still protect her – that _hasn't_ changed," he muttered defensively over his shoulder.

The image vanished as soon as he moved past it, and he reached the console without further incident. It was then he discovered that in his haste to avoid the images (and implied judgment) of his former companions, he'd missed a wrench. Apparently he'd been gripping it so tightly, its presence hadn't registered. He massaged the top of his head with it absentmindedly, the metal cool against his skin.

Then Clara appeared and he nearly dropped it on his head.

"What will happen when she finds out?" The image asked detachedly. The TARDIS apparently hadn't updated her files. Clara stood with hands casually tucked in her jacket pockets, with that red bag slung over one shoulder. She looked far too young, wide, innocent eyes staring at a spot behind him. But her hair…

The Doctor swallowed. This Clara's hair hung in ringlets over her shoulders, just like the curls he had run through his fingers –

"Do you think she'll forgive you? Do you think she'll stay?"

He whirled on the image, brandishing the wrench. It blinked at him, unconcerned. "_You're_ certainly not going to tell her. And why do you care so much all of a sudden – you used to hate her!"

The Clara image looked bored. "Her existence was once a time-space anomaly. Now she is just another stray."

"So if she's just another stray, why do you care so much? Hmm?"

"I worry what you will do if she leaves."

He crossed his arms. "She's not going to leave," he retorted.

The Clara image blinked three times. "When Clara is here, the predictability of your behaviour can be estimated with 72.498% accuracy. When she is not here, that drops to 46.731%."

He found himself staring at the Clara image, memories and sensations too recent to be ignored, despite the monotone and un-Clara-like spouting of analytic statistics.

The TARDIS was linked to his mind – she knew full well that Clara's image brought his haunting to life before his eyes.

_Clever girl._

But the Doctor was determined, too. "You're so concerned with her leaving, but you haven't said how she'd find out if you don't tell her."

The image flickered, as if considering. Then it changed again, and he was staring at another version of himself – all gangly, pinstriped limbs and wild hair. "Is this the man you wanted to be?"

The Doctor felt himself relax, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "You're not going to win this one, dear. So you might as well stop."

The pinstriped suit vanished and was replaced by black leather topped with a no-nonsense face whose unseeing ice-blue eyes somehow carried more weight. "This is the man you've become?"

The Doctor faltered, setting the wrench down at last and passing a shaking hand over his mouth. "I had to," he protested. "It was for her own good."

"Was it really?" a posh, gravelly voice asked.

His head shot up, and he found himself gripping the edge of the console as his warrior self stared at him with far more accusation in a single unseeing glance than all previous ones combined. "How was it for _her_ good, Doctor?"

"It would've complicated things. She would've…wanted things from me, things I can't give her."

It was an image, just an image. But maybe it was because this version of himself was the closest to what he was, his claim on the title of _Doctor_ just as precarious. A man who did what needed to be done. Surely this face would've understood.

"Or worse – I _would've_ given them to her. Maybe I knew that. Maybe it was because I _would've_ given her anything she asked for, and then where would we be?"

"How do know what she would've wanted? Did you ask her?"

"No, I didn't. But you should know more than anyone that you make decisions that you have to live with, decisions that you don't want to make. But you have to because no one else will make them if you don't."

The image blinked twice. "Decisions, Doctor. Decisions involve choice. Did you give Clara a choice in what happened afterwards?"

"You know I didn't – you know it doesn't work like that."

Had the image grown taller? It couldn't have done. But it appeared more solid, less of a mirage. "I do. What I don't know is when she indicated she wished to forget anything had happened. Was she turning away? Pushing you from the room? Did she tell you to leave?"

His throat tightened as he remembered the moment she had murmured his name, and the tears that had appeared when she opened her eyes and saw his face. "She cried…"

"Humans cry when they are sad. Humans can also cry when they are happy or to release tension. Female humans secrete more adrenocorticotropic hormones in tears than male humans, relieving their stress or frustration."

"So you're saying that she only cried because it relieved her stress?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "I'd relieved her stress by then, believe me," he mumbled, unable to look at the version of himself that had asked, aghast, _Is there a lot of this in the future?_ His ears burned, though he couldn't have said if it was from embarrassment or shame.

Mercifully, she moved on. "So she cried, and that's when you decided to wipe her mind."

The Doctor bristled. "No, it wasn't like that, and you know it. I'd decided to wipe her mind before…" He trailed off, realising his mistake.

"Before what, Doctor?"

His shoulders slumped as he replayed it in his head. When he realised he'd let things go too far. When he decided he would give in to every impulse, every urge, every burning desire he'd ever harbored for her – and the silent bargain he'd made with the Universe that he could have this one experience with her if he ensured there would be no complications afterwards.

It seemed the Universe was refusing to hold up its end of the bargain - or perhaps it hadn't heard his request?

Though based on the evidence so far…it seemed far more likely that his request had been denied altogether.

He let out a weary sigh, eyeing the warrior image. "You know before what – you're linked with my mind."

The image wavered, and then changed again. Clara stared at him.

The Doctor couldn't help his gasp or the way he averted his gaze at the sight of her. "I'd really prefer you didn't take that form."

"You have to tell her, Doctor."

He threw his hands up, but there was no fight left in him. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, she will leave."

He massaged his forehead, his temples. "You still haven't said how she's going to find out if you're not the one that tells her."

"Clara took 1,329,056 different memories into her head in a single instant when she jumped into your time stream. Most human brains would have experienced a neural implosion, an aneurysm, or simply been unable to separate memory from reality upon waking. Clara did not. Her brain does not conform to the same psycho-physical limitations of most humans."

He stole a glance at the image, but it was too much. "All right, I'm listening – but will you _please_ take another form? Someone I can actually look at? Someone I can actually listen to? Someone who won't make me feel embarrassed to speak or ashamed?" He remembered the way he'd implored the TARDIS in Berlin as he was dying, although right now, the image of little Amelia Pond would _not _help him any. "Just – someone I can look at straight on, who won't judge me, who might actually still respect me if they were here?"

There was the _zapping_ sound that accompanied an image change.

The Doctor cautiously raised his head and found himself looking into a mirror. "Now you're just being funny."

"I do not have a sense of humour. I take myself very seriously," his doppelganger deadpanned.

He barked out a laugh. "Trying to tell me something, dear?"

The image scowled. Or perhaps that was just his face.

"All right, so you're saying you think she retained it? That I didn't erase it completely?"

"You took the memory, but her brain is strong; fragments may have been sheltered from your reach. She may retain parts of it – in dreams, flashes – she'll put the pieces together, work it out eventually. And then she will leave."

"So what do I do? And how do you know she won't leave if I _do_ tell her?"

"I do not know."

The Doctor leaned on the console, clasping his hands as he thought and thought. To no avail. "Do I just greet her with 'Hello, Clara, I wiped your memories last week?'" He asked himself mockingly.

The doppelganger stared.

The Doctor shook his head. "I guess I just…find a way to tell her, then," he mumbled.

The image finally vanished, leaving him alone.

* * *

There was no escape.

Even after she'd turned around at the end of her block, rushing back to her flat to check that she hadn't left something important – her ID, her phone, her wallet – or left something on – the stove, the faucet – and triple-checked the locks before leaving again –

Even after she'd driven her students barmy with double-checking that she'd assigned them the right pages, and triple-checking that she hadn't forgotten to inform them of the due dates for their upcoming assignments –

Even after she'd garnered more than a few questioning looks when she kept whipping her head around on the tube, convinced that _someone_ was watching her, but was just out of sight, right in the corner of her eye, vanishing whenever she turned her head –

She couldn't shake the feeling that she was forgetting _something_. Something important.

And, more maddeningly – something to do with the Doctor.

Was it some kind of unjust punishment, visited upon her by his prior face from beyond the grave? Did her decision to go on a date trigger some unexpected guilt about moving on? Wouldn't he have wanted her to try to be happy without him?

Or was he destined to haunt her instead?

Her dreams weren't helping, either.

It wasn't just the echo dreams – she had grown accustomed to those long ago. After all, it felt like she had at least a million memories to sort through, and her brain needed _some_ way of working them out, putting them in their proper places. But these were different, somehow. She found herself in a memory with the Third Doctor, puttering around in Bessie, when all of a sudden he morphed into the Fourth Doctor, long scarf flapping behind him instead of his cape as he desperately tried to regain control of the automobile. The Second Doctor piped away merrily on his recorder as he tried to devise their escape from a prison cell, but then all of a sudden became the Third Doctor, the tune abruptly stopping as he eyed it with a dismissive frown. The Seventh Doctor good-naturedly chastised his companion for packing explosives in her bag when he all of a sudden changed into the younger-looking Eighth Doctor, scaring his companion enough to threaten him with one of said explosives. Clara's echoes kept yelling at the Doctors, screaming at them to stop changing, to _Just be you! –_

And she'd wake up.

The dream would fall to pieces, then, her mind retaining only snatches of it and she'd look around her room apprehensively, just as she had done every morning since the night of her date. Like if she looked carefully enough, she'd find it. She'd see it.

But as usual, no matter how much she scrutinised her room, no matter how much she stared – it only stared back, keeping silent. Keeping whatever secrets it contained to itself.

If it contained any secrets at all. It was entirely possible she was just going mad.

Yet what really tipped the scales – what really convinced her that there was something she needed to deal with – was when her last resort failed her.

Ever since she'd said goodbye to _her_ Doctor, since she'd put on her bravest face as he disappeared through the TARDIS doors to meet his next face – she had used the translator – or, more fittingly, the message he'd left her there – to soothe her in her in her darkest moments, on her gloomiest days and during her loneliest nights. She no longer needed the English text screen, having learnt every word, every intake of breath, every pause and dip in his voice long ago. Now she could simply press the _play_ button and listen, letting that beloved voice wash over her, finding a balm to the ache he left behind in his words of caring, of the hope and joy she'd provided him, of the deeply felt love he'd developed for her. And his confessed desires of the things he'd wanted to do, things he'd wished they could do – things they could now never do… These were the words she turned to when she was at her most frustrated, like after her date.

But when she'd grabbed the translator with a world-weary sigh on Wednesday evening, she was shocked to discover that the words had an _opposite _effect on her. Instead of soothing her, they made her even more restless, increasing her anxiety enough that she impulsively fast-forwarded, reaching the last part of the message. Yet hearing those familiar words was somehow even _worse, _her tension so high that by the time she fumbled for the off switch, she was shaking.

It _must_ have been guilt, then.

Guilt for going on a date; guilt for moving on. And her dreams, with the Doctor never staying who he was meant to be – must have been some kind of wishing on her part that things could've stayed the same. That _her_ Doctor could have just stayed himself, never regenerating into the sharp-tongued, silver-haired man he was now. Then she would never have had to go on a date in the first place.

Still, she resolved to approach her next meeting with the Doctor with extra caution, to see if anything was amiss. Because the only logical conclusion she could draw came with a sinking sense of dread.

That despite her quiet acceptance of their new dynamic, of their new relationship - that somehow, _some _way, she still yearned for him.

That for some unknown reason...she still wanted _this_ Doctor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **Hello, my dear readers! Finally, an update for you! Again, thank you to all who review, favorite, and follow - getting any kind of feedback is always wonderful, and I really appreciate it! :) Also, I said before that there were only a few chapters left, but my brain has come up some more, so I'm revising "a few" to several - hope that's okay. :-p Enjoy!

* * *

The Doctor couldn't stop his pacing, his gradual if frenetic dance about the console. He was fidgeting like he hadn't done since the last body, finding new switches to flick, other knobs to turn.

He'd parked the TARDIS, and she hadn't shown up yet.

She hadn't shown up…

Maybe that meant –

"Hello?"

He turned around abruptly. "Hello."

"Oh." She paused. "You don't usually stand right there."

Was he standing too close? Was that betraying something? "Well, I just got here," he replied, already backpedaling.

"Oh. Okay."

If she had worked anything out, she was doing a fine job of hiding it, her movements nonchalant as she dumped her bag on the chair. He couldn't stand the seconds of silence.

"How was your week? Did anything interesting happen, or any…strange dreams?"

She was grasping a faded, grey t-shirt in one hand and a pair of worn trainers in the other, items she'd apparently fished from her bag. "Strange dreams?" She rested them on top. "Why would you ask me that?"

He shrugged casually. "No reason, really – just curious as to how your week went."

Apparently it was too casual. She clasped her hands together loosely as she leaned over the chair. "You're never curious about how my week went. What's going on?"

He rushed to correct her, turning his back so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "That's not true. I'm always curious – I just never express it."

"Doctor –"

"I did something."

"And there it is." She paused, taking on that air he suspected she'd adapted from her time with Artie and Angie, one that had probably served her well as a teacher. Appropriately serious but with an underlying compassion to it: she would listen first before passing judgment. "Okay. What did you do?"

He wasn't taking any chances, though. "Before I tell you, you have to promise me you won't leave."

"That bad, then?"

"Just…" He finally met her eye, openly pleading with her. "Please promise me. You won't leave."

"Wow, must have been _really_ bad."

"Clara-"

"All right, fine, I promise." She flung her t-shirt over the back of the chair. "I'm not going anywhere Doctor. So what was it? Tell me." She looked like she was steeling herself. "Did you wipe out a species?"

His mouth dropped open, scowling at the insult. "No!"

"Okay - good. Did you destroy a planet?"

He couldn't help his noise of frustration. "No, nothing like that! I didn't kill _anyone_ – what kind of man do you think I am?"

She held up her hands in defence. "Okay. You didn't kill anyone, that's good."

It must have been a method honed from years of practise: start with the most horrible act imaginable and work your way down from there, slowly chipping away pieces of the confessor's guilt. His compassionate Clara, trying to ease his burden and make this easier on him.

But it was only making it worse.

"I…I took something," was all he could manage.

"Oh. Okay." She folded her arms. "Did it belong to you?"

"No."

"So you _stole_ something," she clarified, face still miraculously clear of judgment.

He swallowed. "Yes. And now I have to give it back."

"Right." She was thoughtful a moment. "Well…can you give it back without whoever it is noticing?"

"No," he said after a moment of actual consideration. "And I never expected you'd want me to be underhanded about it."

"I don't! Just – weighing all your options is all." Her fingers drummed against her arms. "Especially if someone might come after us…"

"No one will come after us."

"Sure about that?"

"Yes."

There was a brief thrumming overhead, and the Doctor mentally told the TARDIS to shut it. _I don't need you involved in this._

But Clara heard it, frowning at the ceiling. "Is _she_ upset about this?"

The Doctor tried to equivocate. "We had a disagreement earlier, but we're _past it now_," he said meaningfully, glaring upward. The thrumming stopped, her warning done.

Clara was tapping her finger against her lip, still thinking. "Well – was it someone important? Like to history? Or the future?"

He winced. "It was someone important…though not in the way you're describing, no."

She nodded, though she didn't look convinced. "Okay. So - what did you take?"

His confession came out on a sigh. "I took…someone's memories."

Clearly she hadn't been expecting that. "Oh. So you took someone's memories of someone important to…" She trailed off, eyeing him anew, her judgment-free mask beginning to slip. "Hang on…was it me?"

The Doctor found he could only look at her, his confirmation stuck in his throat.

"Doctor…" She took one threatening step towards him.

"Yes," he croaked.

She subjected him to her hardened gaze for a few painful seconds before turning, walking back towards the chair, shaking her head all the while. "All week, I've had this weird feeling like – like there was something important I wasn't seeing – something I was supposed to be paying attention to. Like if I could just turn my head I'd catch this – this _thing _in the corner of my eye, that I'd remember. Like I was forgetting something." Her look was just shy of a glare. "Guess it's cause I _was_. Although I don't know when you could've taken them - I haven't seen you since…" She trailed off again, her lips twisting into a humourless smile. "Right. So I _have_ seen you since you showed up on my doorstep last week."

"Yes."

She crossed her arms again, back to that nanny-turned-teacher stance. "Okay. Well…tell me what happened."

He hadn't anticipated that she'd go so far as to ask for his side of the story. He thought you told the bad thing you did, returned the thing you weren't supposed to take, and waited for your punishment to be doled out. He swallowed down his discomfort. "You…you want me to tell you what happened? Don't you just want them back?"

She took a minute step back at his suggestion. "What? No! No! If it was bad enough, I mean…it must have been something truly horrible, something so awful, so terrible that you didn't want me to remember. I don't want them to just be dumped in my head – you're going to tell me what happened first! So – what was it? Were we attacked?"

"No."

"Was _I_ attacked?"

"No."

"But it had to have been bad, right?" Her shrug looked close to a shiver. "I mean if it was bad enough that you took them – either that or – did we go somewhere we're not supposed to? Someplace that's, I dunno – forbidden?"

Her question was closer to the truth than he liked. He tugged at his collar, his neck suddenly too warm. "Well…"

"We did, didn't we?" There was unmistakable relief in her voice. "Someplace I'm not supposed to know about then?"

"No, not – not exactly. We didn't go anywhere. We stayed in one place."

"Oh. You mean we stayed in the TARDIS?" New understanding dawned on her face. "Was there another rupture in time?"

"No, no, it wasn't like that – we weren't in the TARDIS. We were in your – in your bedroom."

"In my…bedroom?

"Yes. I came to visit you after your date."

She didn't seem fazed by the location. "But then what? Did something happen? Did you come to warn me about something, and it followed you?"

"No, I…I just came to see you. It was just you and me."

"Oh. But then…was it a wormhole?"

"A wormhole?!" He couldn't help his irritation, as she unwittingly dragged the conversation out further and further. "Do you want to keep guessing or do you want me to tell you?"

Clara made some sort of defensive gesture, finally settling on crossing her arms again. "Fine. Tell me. You showed up in my…bedroom."

"Yes. We had a conversation."

"Okay. And then what?"

"Well, then…you wanted me to hug you."

She huffed. "Um, okay. So…after you ran screaming from the room, did you actually come back?"

He couldn't help the way his lips quirked at that. "There was no screaming or running. I did hug you. And then you…kissed me."

She gave a visible start. "What, like on the cheek?"

"No, on the mouth. And then you wanted me to hold you –"

"Wait – _what_?"

"-and so I held you, and then you kissed me again, and we were kissing and –"

"No, no – hang on," she interrupted, waving a hand as though she could wave away his words. "You're telling me that you and I were _snogging_. You. And _me_. Snogging."

"Yes."

She surprised him by letting out a laugh. "Did I come back _really_, really pissed?"

The question caught him off-guard. "No, you seemed sober."

"Was I _drugged_? Acting weird, I dunno – like out of it or something?"

"No, you were acting normal."

"Okay." She was nodding her head, but her expression didn't match. "Okay, well I can see why you would want to erase that memory but figure it'd be from _your_ memory, not mine."

"I'm not finished."

"There's _more_?"

"Yes."

She eyed him warily. "Okay…"

"So we were kissing, and you wanted me to take off your dress and –"

"I _WHAT_?!"

"-but I didn't want to take off your dress, and so you got frustrated and –"

"No, no, hang on –"

"-and that's when you started…touching yourself."

Her mouth opened and closed, her teacher persona dissolving instantly. Or perhaps this was simply the expression she wore when she actually feared for a student's sanity. Her words stuttered as she struggled to get them out. "Doctor…why would you say these things?"

"It's what happened," he said, somewhat defensively.

She started to laugh again, shaking her head. "But I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't do what you're describing in a _million_ years. In front of someone. And in front of _you_? Not in a million _MILLION_ years!"

The double jab pricked at each of his hearts in turn. "Well…you did. But it wasn't just you, I - helped. Using the…screwdriver."

All traces of whatever type of mirth she'd found in the situation instantly left her face as she took on an air of mock seriousness. "Oh. Right. 'Cause that sounds like something I'd do, too. Not only was I doing this in front of you, but I took your screwdriver, and used it as a –"

"No, no like that!" He gestured vaguely. "It didn't even touch you – it…it has a setting. A pulse – vibration -setting. I just sat there. No contact required."

"And I just…_let_ you do that," she said matter-of-factly, clearly pretending to go along with what she viewed as his delusions.

"Yes. You'd invited me to…join in before that."

"Oh yeah, 'course I did. Wouldn't want you to feel left out, right?"

He ground his teeth, determined to be done with it. "So then after, you went to change, and I knew it was too late, and I should've left, but…I stayed. And you were going to take your dress off, but then I …took it off for you."

"You…took my dress off."

He could no longer look at her. "Yes."

She let out the start of another laugh, but it was suddenly cut short. She stared, wide-eyed. "Where – where did you take it off?"

He frowned. "In your bedroom."

"No – where in my room?"

He thought for a moment. "It was by your cupboard. You were about to change. I forgot to hang it up, I – left it on the floor."

She swallowed audibly. "The floor?"

"Yes." Seizing on her silence, he rushed on. "So I took your dress off, and then I was…kissing you. All over."

"But I still had my…underthings on, right?"

He fought down his grimace. "Just your…" He waved a hand at his chest.

"_Just_ my -? What happened to my…" She squeezed her eyes shut, tapping her foot. "I can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but – what happened to my knickers?"

Her embarrassment and discomfort only augmented his. He shook his head quickly. "You'd taken them off before…when you were…" He trailed off, letting a lift of his eyebrows serve as an end to that sentence.

Her eyes doubled in size again. "So when you say you were kissing me all over, and I was almost naked, did you…?" She couldn't even get the words out. "I mean, were you kissing…?"

"I kissed all over, but then…then yes, I focused on one area."

"You mean you were…?"

"Yes."

Clara was struck dumb; the only sounds she seemed capable of were deep breaths.

"So I was doing that, and we moved to your desk, and knocked some things over –"

"Hang on, no, no, no." She held up a hand. "Nothing was out of place on my desk when I woke up."

He felt his cheeks redden at having to admit his cover-up. "I put it all back before I left. Though I missed your dress."

"Put it all back how?"

"Well, I put the pens and pencils back in the jars and –"

"No, how did you leave it?" There was an urgency to her question he didn't understand. "Not the pens and pencils – what else was on there?"

"There was your scarf, your purse, and your – dangly things. I folded your scarf, put your purse on top, and the dangly things next to it."

The colour had drained from her face, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "When you saw me before my date, you said it looked like I was going to a funeral 'cause I was dressed all in black. But then after you left, I wondered if you were right, so I ran upstairs and grabbed a wrap – scarf - to have a pop of colour. If what you're saying is true…" She trailed off, her expression grave as she fixed him with her stare. "Doctor…what colour was the scarf?"

"It was red."

Clara turned from him, hand over her mouth as she doubled over, her breaths coming fast. "I think I might be sick," she replied hoarsely.

He fumbled, flustered at this. "I can – I can just give you your memories back."

"_NO_." Her reply was automatic. "No. Just…just tell me the rest."

The mere sight of her doubled over, physically ill from the descriptions – not even _descriptions_ but _statements - _cold, hard facts, of what they'd done together…

He would rather she'd haunted him for the next thousand years.

"We moved to your bed, and then after it was done –"

"After _what_ was done?" She snapped her head up, and he noticed there was a faint sheen on her forehead. "Did you…did I take your clothes off, too? Did we…?" She looked like the answer might send her running for the rubbish bin.

"No. I was…focused on you. And after that, I held you. And that was it."

"_It_." The motion of her head was far too jerky to be called a nod. "And then you decided you'd wipe my mind."

He dropped his gaze, unable to look at her. "Clara…"

"No." She was shaking her head now, her voice very quiet. "No, no, no. NO. This. Doesn't. Make. _Any._ Sense. I wouldn't do any of these things and certainly not with _you_!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "You're leaving something out! _You're_ forgetting something, Doctor!"

"I'm not! I told you everything that happened!" He scoffed. "You think I would make any of this _up_?"

Her hands flew to her head, palms pressing into her scalp as though she could will the memories out of her own mind – or prevent them from returning. "Well, you must be, because none of this…" She paced a few steps, hands dropping to her sides. "There must have been something – maybe _you_ were drugged or we were infected by some alien dust or…I don't know _what_!"

"There was no drugging, no dust! I told you everything! We talked, and then we did those things!"

"We talked? What did we talk about – 'let's pretend we're two _completely_ different people for one night?!'"

His biting retort died in his throat as he realised the full impact of his omission. How her reactions might've been slightly different if he had told her the events as they unfolded instead of out of order. "No, no." He sighed. "It was about the translator."

"What?"

"The translator I gave you before I changed."

The admission did nothing to calm her. "And what about it? What does _that_ have to do with any of this?!"

"It has EVERYHING to do with it!" He shouted, finally reaching his own boiling point. "I told you about the message I left you before I regenerated – and how every word I said, every…impassioned declaration, every flowery metaphor, every…_burning desire _is still true."

She gaped at him, her expression all-too-familiar. "What?"

He let out a bitter chuckle. "And you didn't believe me. You didn't believe me because you thought that I hated touching you, and I told you that I _don't_ hate touching you, that it's the opposite, that every time you're even near me, I _feel_ it." He'd approached her in his agitation, words flowing from him in an unstoppable rush now. "I can…smell your hair from here and every time you breathe, I know the places it touches my skin."

She was back to eyeing him incredulously again. "But…that doesn't make any sense."

He pointed at her. "And you said that, too! You didn't believe me – but Clara, I have done _everything_ to make you think that! To make you think that I hated touching you, that I didn't want to hug you, that being near you disgusted me. Because I wanted you to date men your own age – which I kept saying over and over again, you'll see!"

"Then why tell me all that?"

"What?"

Her hands were back on her head again, then flew about as she gesticulated wildly. "If you wanted me to date men my own age, Doctor, then _why_ tell me all of this? As soon as I _do_ go on a date with a man my age? Why wait until the _exact same night_?!"

Her question threw him for a moment. "Because… because I thought you should know. I wanted you to have a choice."

Her laugh was high-pitched, borderline hysterical. "A _choice_? You took that choice away from me!"

"I didn't…" He shook his head. "I'm telling you now – I'm giving your memories back to you," he protested, advancing towards her.

But she backed away from him, hands held up like a shield. "No – no. Don't touch me."

He was crestfallen. "Okay."

She paced back to the chair, gripping the back of it as she hung her head. "If everything you said in that message is still true…EVERYTHING…." She took a breath, finally meeting his eyes. "That means you still…_love_ me?"

He bravely held her gaze, nodding. "Yes."

But his admission only caused her to shake her head again, a different kind of disbelief in her features. "Then _how_, Doctor…_how_ could you do something like that to me?"

He didn't want to say it, but he honestly didn't have a better answer for her. And she deserved honesty, if nothing else. "Because I thought it'd be easier," he admitted.

"Easier on _who_ exactly?"

"On you." He paused. "And on me."

Clara bit her lip, still stoppering the emotions that seemed like they wanted to break free. She took a shuddering breath, turning as though the sight of him pained her. "God, I can't even look at you."

Apparently it did.

The Doctor braced himself on the console, his voice quiet as he pleaded with her the only way he knew how. "I know I did wrong. I know what I did was wrong, and I'm sorry. I wish I could take it back…but I can't. Just – please let me give you back your memories."

She still wouldn't turn around. "Is there a way you can give them back without touching me?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No."

He heard her take a few audible breaths. "Fine." She approached him with leaden steps and the stoic resolve normally reserved for meeting one's executioner. She joined him at the console, gaze stubbornly fixated on the time rotor.

He turned, reached for her – and stopped. "You – you have to face me."

She ignored him. "Before we do this, I just want to make sure you've got one thing clear." Her tone was like steel.

"All right."

"I made you a promise that I wouldn't leave. _Not_ the one you asked me to make just now, but the one I made after you changed. So I'll stay."

He tried his best not to sound too surprised, aiming for cautious optimism. "Good."

"But you better get it through that _thick…_Time Lord skull of yours that just because I am staying, that does _not_ mean I forgive you." Her voice had grown dangerously quiet, and it sounded like she had to fight to pry the words from between her teeth.

He made a valiant effort not to react. "Understood."

"And it may take a _very_ long time for me to get there." She finally turned towards him. "And I can't promise you that I'll get there at all."

It shouldn't have been so unexpected, but her words might as well have pulverized his hearts. "Okay."

He reached for her again, desperate to have it all done with, but she evaded his touch, pacing away from him again. It was disconcertingly similar to their dance of the previous week, their roles merely reversed.

She finally paced back to him, such fire burning in her eyes as he had never seen. "No. No, I'm not done yet. One more thing. One more thing before I _let_ you into my mind."

"What?"

There was a pause, and then – _whack!_

The sound echoed in his ears before he processed the sensation that went with it, his brain sloshing around the inside of his skull as his cheek exploded in pain. Before he could fully register the sting of her first slap – _whack! _– a second blow landed across his other cheek, this one possibly even more forceful than the first. He staggered back, hands automatically cradling his face to nurse them – or maybe protect them from any further onslaught.

"Okay." Her exhalation sounded close to one of satisfaction. "I'm ready."

He nodded, though it may have been more a motion to clear the tiny flashes of light flickering around his head than a reply. "Okay." He paused as he eyed their position. "It might be better if you sit."

"I'm fine with standing, thanks." Her lips barely moved, her jaw was clenched so tightly.

He'd been right about one thing: Clara really was his sun. She'd unmasked the full power behind those rays that could warm or burn – and now he was wilting under her undimmed radiance. "Whatever you want." He waited. "You need to close your eyes, Clara."

"I'll close them when I'm ready." She paused, dropping her gaze. Then she reached for his hands, gripping his fingers as she brought them to her temples, her touch anything but gentle. "This is how you do it, yeah?"

He fought down a grimace as her grip tightened, squeezing the life out of his fingers. "Yes."

"Okay. I'm ready." At last, her eyes mercifully closed.

The organisation of Clara's memories was remarkable, with doorways adorned accordingly to separate them into categories: a collection of dolls with carefully arranged blonde and brunette hair stared with unblinking eyes, keeping their watchful vigil in front of one door; another door looked like a giant whiteboard, with scribbled messages from friends and fellow students, and the sound of laughter emanating from behind it. These doors were at the beginning of the corridor, with plenty of overhead lighting to illuminate their presence and provide ease of access. The details started tapering off as he traveled further down the corridor, the light dimming as he passed doors that had only one item in front of them. A solitary book leaned against one softly lit doorway, and he bowed his head in respect as he noted the title when he passed: _101 Places to See_. He frowned as he approached yet another doorway lit with warm, rosy hues but with nothing to indicate what the memories were about. He unthinkingly reached forward, but stopped dead when he saw what was on the knob.

There, tied perfectly around the knob with great care, was one of his old bowties.

He hurried on.

The stolen memory wasn't difficult to locate: there was a blinking light at the end of the corridor that guided him there. It shone like a beacon, momentarily blinding him with its glare only to darken a few seconds later. As if her mind were screaming at her to pay attention to something it couldn't pinpoint – and then go unnervingly silent.

It took some effort to swallow down his shame. She must've thought she was going mad.

Luckily, he didn't have to recreate the structure of the memory, as there was already a door leading to an empty room. He quietly marveled at the strength of her mind, that it had even retained the sense of that room, that inexplicable yawning space. He filled it as quickly as he could, exiting and closing the door behind him. A vigorous jog that was closer to a sprint down the main corridor, a reach for the door he'd originally entered -

Clara's eyes flew open, her breaths coming fast as the full brunt of the memories hit her. Then she turned from him, her steps shaky as she approached the railing, clutching it as though holding on for dear life. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I was…naked." Her words trembled. "I had just done something so…intimate with you, and I was naked, and you – you gave me your jacket. You gave me your jacket, and you were holding me and stroking my hair, and I felt…_safe_ with you. For the first time, Doctor…" She turned back, tears streaming down her face. "I felt safe with you!"

Whatever was left of his hearts evaporated on the spot. "You _were_ safe. You've always been safe – I would never let anything happen to you."

Clara slowly shook her head. "No, Doctor. That is _not_ what I mean." She wiped the tears from her eyes, looking towards the door. "I can't stay here."

He felt his stomach plummet through the floor. "But you said you wouldn't leave."

"Not forever, just…I can't be here right now, I just…" She moved towards the door, her steps determined. "I can't be in the same room with you. Don't know if I even want to be on the same _planet_ as you."

He followed her. "Do you want me to wait?"

Her reply was quick. "No. No, I need…I need some time."

"Oh. Should I come back next week then?"

"_No_."

He was silent, the severity of the situation finally sinking in.

He heard her sigh. "God. I really wish I could tell you to never come back. To just – go find someone else to…" This time the noise that came out of her mouth was more strangled frustration, accompanied by a thud as she let her weight fall into the door. "I wonder if you have any idea how much I _hate _you right now."

He gripped the console, suddenly needing the support. It took him a while to find not only a reply but a voice to give it with. "I'm starting to."

He shouldn't have said anything, because now she was looking at him again. She was looking at him, and it made him amend his original wish to _two_ thousand years of haunting.

"Maybe that'll be a good punishment." Was the TARDIS feeding her his thoughts? "You don't get to travel alone or run from what you did. You'll have to travel with someone who can _barely stand the sight of you._"

Twelve hundred years…twelve hundred years and he was seeing something new from a companion. There were plenty of times he'd caused them pain – or angered them (or both). There were the times when they finally learned he wasn't a god or a superhero and it was that mix of shock and disappointment, like Amy after he lost Melody. There was the distrust and the fear – the sense that he'd better tread carefully or he'd let them down, like Rose when he'd been prepared to blow up that Dalek in Utah.

He could handle her shock. He could understand her anger and her pain. He could weather her fear and her disappointment.

But this was _betrayal_.

This was _I trusted you…and now I don't trust you at all._

And worst of all, the kicker…

_I may never trust you again._

He could just barely manage a nod.

"But I still need some time, and I honestly don't know how much time I need…" She shook her head, tilting her head skyward. "I want to say a year – hell, I want to say _ten, _but I know that won't make anything better. And so much can happen in a year – and I am _not _putting my life on hold for you. And if I say six months or even three, I know I'll just be dreading the day you come back, so…" She finally met his eyes. "I'm not saying I'll be ready 'cause I have no idea how I'll be…but come back in a month."

He nodded. "All right. I will."

It was better than he could have hoped for – better than he might have expected. Yet the sight of her hand on the door handle prompted him to one last act of desperation. "Clara?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

She took several seconds to turn around, the action evidently performed with great difficulty. "What?"

"I know you hate me right now – I know that. But I just need to know, before all this happened, did you…" He took a breath, steeling his resolve, throwing caution to the wind and availing himself of this last-ditch effort to salvage anything between them. "Do you still love me?"

Her eyes widened, lips parting in surprise. The muscles of her face twitched as she clearly fought back whatever emotions threatened to overcome her. "You want me to separate what I'm feeling right now from whatever came before this so you can what? Make yourself feel better?"

He stared at her, unflinching under her glare. "I think it'd be worse, not better."

Finally, she broke their eye contact, shaking her head. "I don't know," she admitted. "Come back in a month."

"Ask you again?" He ventured, a tiny shred of hope finding its way into the ruin of his hearts. "Because in a month you might say -"

"Just…come back in a month."

The door didn't slam, but there was such finality in the sound that it brought the Doctor to his knees.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Well first and foremost a HUGE apology for the ridiculous delay in posting between chapters. I am happy (cautiously) to report that my health has been improving and as of yesterday, finally received something somewhat definitive about what to do/expect going forward. Thank you to all for your many notes and comments of concern – they are much appreciated. :)

**NB:** PLEASE remember this is an AU. Part of the reason it took so long to update is because I was waiting to see just HOW AU it would be based on what happened in Series 8 (I wrote/planned most of this story by mid-October). The answer: VERY AU. So my Twelve may have some elements of Canon Twelve, but other things could seem OOC (i.e., my Twelve doesn't lie like Eleven did. And neither does Clara, actually). If you want 100% Canon Twelve, this might not be for you (Tipping Your Hand is the only canon Twelve/Clara I've done, or there are probably 8 zillion other Canon Twelve stories as well :-p)

* * *

Clara slept at her dad's the first week.

She'd returned to her flat in a daze, utterly unaware of how she'd arrived as she stepped into her bedroom. But the second she stepped across its threshold, she was immediately bombarded with images, tactile sensations, sounds, her bedroom now her own personal Pandora's Box. And with its seal broken, it tipped over and gleefully spilled its secrets and memories into her head: the desk – _where he had hoisted her after her leg muscles protested, clutching each thigh and hitching them over his shoulders; _the nightstand – _where he had dropped pin after pin after pin, the start of his unexpected seduction as he undid her hair and with it, her resolve; _the cupboard – _where he had grabbed her from behind and peeled her dress away, hot, demanding mouth blazing a trail of kisses down her back; _the bed…

She swallowed. _The bed_.

Her approach was cautious. She didn't sink into it, holding herself rigid as though the ends might unhinge to reveal a pair of hideous jaws that would snatch her off the edge and swallow her whole.

The bed…

_Where he had sat, unreachable, as he worked her to the edge and back again, watching her dissolve to pieces..._

_Where he had run his possessive hands over every curve, every dimple, every mole, every stubborn ingrown hair and fleshy pouch and scar, his touch greedy like he knew he was touching her for the last -_

She squeezed her eyes shut.

_Where he had lain her down, so gentle…_

_Where he had wiped away her tears with tender fingertips…_

_Where he had covered her, his jacket like a protective cloak; and in the shelter of his embrace, her head had found a comfortable spot on his chest at last, his strokes and caresses so soothing, so –_

She was off the bed in an instant, refusing to even _think_ that word.

But it floated about her head, mocking her: the last secret in this box that had once been her bedroom, her haven, her sanctuary. This place that no longer felt –

_Safe._

Within twenty minutes, she had a bag packed and was out the door, slamming it shut. Sealing the contents inside.

Or so she thought.

Because removing physical reminders was the easy bit.

Memories, however…well, memories were slippery.

Of course, Clara was well acquainted with their nature: she had learnt every trick to prevent memories from overtaking her waking hours. With so many memories, she'd become quite the locksmith: fashioning the right-sized key for each individual door in the endless corridors of her echoes' lifetimes.

Unfortunately, she had never _mastered _the art…because those doors always opened at night in her dreams.

And that's exactly how the new memories slipped in.

_She was back on Holi, standing under the shower, feeling the warm, thick substance like tiny fingers on her neck…but then the substance became the Doctor's fingers, kneading at those tight muscles. _

"_Feels good…doesn't it?" He murmured in her ear, his mouth following his fingers._

"_Yesss," she hissed her pleasure._

_They were both soaking wet, and she watched the colours swirl down the drain, the purples and magentas gradually deepening to blood red. _

"_Doctor," she said, alarmed._

"_Ignore it." His voice was muffled as he kissed down her neck and her back, her shirt suddenly gone. There was a strange smell in the air now._

"_What is that?"_

_His only reply was a moan, but no, it was more strangled than that. She turned, letting out a shriek at the sight of him. Flames licked his clothing, the sides of his face, but he didn't seem to notice as he continued kissing her stomach. _

"_Doctor, you're on fire!"_

_He only peered up at her. "Of course I am," he replied blithely. He held up his hands as they burst into flame. "This is what you do to me."_

_Panicked, she lunged for the shower orb overhead, desperately trying to extend it from the wall. But she lost her footing and slipped, landing hard on the tiled floor. When she opened her eyes, he was gone, and she shivered under the cold water –_

_And suddenly she was on Cedaraius, still naked. The snow drifted down around her, and her teeth chattered as she hugged her legs to her body. "Doctor?" she called, her voice returning to her on the wind._

_There was the sound of footsteps trudging through the snow. _

_Clara held up a hand and squinted through the flurries, just making out a familiar shape with a long coat. "Doctor?"_

_The form finally reached her and she found herself looking up into the Doctor's previous face, green eyes full of concern. "Clara?"_

_Her mouth opened, but her words were stuck. _

"_Clara! What are you doing here?" He swooped down on her, running gentle hands over her shoulders, her hair. "And you're all wet – you'll catch your death out here!" _

"_I –"_

"_Here." He quickly unbuttoned his jacket, laying it around her shoulders and covering her. _

"_I was…" she began, but her words fell away as the Doctor folded her into his embrace, rocking her back and forth. _

"_No one here for you…no one to take care of you…" He kissed the top of her head, and it worked like magic on her eyelids, which closed as grateful, happy tears sprung to her eyes. "Who's going to look out for you?"_

_Then he was gone, and she was alone again._

_She turned from side to side, meeting empty, cold air in every direction. "Doctor?"_

"_Mmm," came the reply from near her stomach._

_She was in her bed, wearing only a t-shirt, her hands fisted in the Doctor's mop of brown hair. _

_He raised his head, hair flopping boyishly over his eyes. He smiled. "We haven't done this, have we?" he asked in a toe-curling tone of voice._

"_You," she breathed, returning the smile. "It's still you."_

_He pressed himself against her, his clothes falling away like his sheer want of her was enough to melt them. "It's me." He kissed her, tongue sweeping inside her mouth, then dropped to her neck. "We didn't get to do this, did we?"_

_She could only shake her head, clutching him tighter._

"_Do you want this, Clara Oswald?" he asked, bucking against her._

_She nodded fervently. "Yes," she cried softly. "God, yes, I want this. I want YOU. Just you."_

_And then he was inside her, and they were moving together, and she could barely contain herself knowing that she had him there, that it was him, it was HIM…_

_His breaths came hot in her ear. "You think I didn't know you wanted it to be him?" the wrong voice growled._

_She jerked up, expecting to see the older face, but it was the same Doctor. Still him. _

"_Clara?" His light eyebrows immediately knit together. "What's wrong?"_

_She placed both palms on his face, holding him there, the image of him – of HIM over her like this. He was here and this was real and REALLY happening. "Nothing. Nothing, just – just kiss me."_

_He caught her lower lip between his, making her sigh into his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, crushing him to her, hands wandering his face like they were checking to make sure his face was still his._

_But he was insatiable and quickly broke away from her hold, descending again on her neck, tongue lapping against her ear. She let out a whimper when his teeth grazed the tip of it._

"_Better enjoy this, Clara, since this'll be your last time," the wrong voice warned again._

_This time when she pushed back, she was looking into the owner of that voice's face, slate blue eyes darkened with desire and something even fiercer. _

_Gasping, her hands immediately unwound from his neck, trying to push herself away. But he anticipated her movements, catching her wrists and pinning them to the bed. _

"_I could make you scream," he purred, letting a finger trail lazily around her jaw. "You know I could do things to you that HE would never have dreamed of…never have DARED to do."_

_She could only stare, wide-eyed, caught in the stalemate of her body warring with her mind._

_He thrust into her, and her eyes slid shut against her will, a traitorous moan sounding from her throat. _

_His cackle was triumphant. "You feel it. You know it."_

_She pried her eyes open, shaking her head. "No…no, I don't want –"_

"_Don't want what?" Another rolls of his hips, slow and languid. _

_She shook her head, biting her lip to prevent another cry from escaping. "I don't want –"_

"_Me?" His mouth fell to her neck, and she could feel it – the fire. Pouring from him – or was it from her? "We both know that's not true…"_

_She conceded defeat, giving herself over to it, letting it build as they continued their own build. And when she was pushed to the edge, so close, he whispered in her ear. _

"_Too bad we can't have it."_

_His face was blistered, horribly disfigured from where the flames had consumed his flesh. She screamed –_

And woke up covered in a cold sweat, shaking.

Instinctively, she reached for her lamp on her nightstand, but met with only air. It was then she remembered she was in her old room at her father's flat. She slid up in the bed until her back was against the wall, tucking herself into a tight ball. The memory – dream - of her Doctor covering her with his coat was just close enough that she could conjure it, could feel the way his arms slid around her shoulders, hugging her close. But it warred with the actual memory, freshly planted in her mind, of her new Doctor performing the same motion – before both vanished…

"Why did you leave me there?" she whispered into the dark silence of the room. "Why did you leave me here? Why did you leave, Doctor, _why_?"

This room had no more answers than her own bedroom, leaving her to ponder which _him_ and _he _she meant as she rocked herself back and forth.

* * *

Clara returned home the next week.

The different location could only do so much, and her sleep hadn't been any more restful than if she had stayed in her own flat. But even that reasoning wasn't what tipped the scales for her. Because while she had been unsuccessful in curtailing the memories that grew and warped into even stranger and ever-more confusing dreams at night, she had at least been able to keep it all safely tucked away during the day, carefully pushed to the furthest recesses of her mind.

But she discovered that she could only do that for so long.

Clara hadn't thought anything of it when she'd glanced at her lesson plan for the day. She had taught _Jane Eyre_ several times now, and her afternoon class probably ranked as somewhere in the middle for both level of interaction and thoughtfulness of discussion. And Dorna McAllister wasn't exactly a star student – or a terribly talkative one for that matter. Her argument wasn't all that articulate, though Clara did have to admire her for her gusto…

"I think he's a right bastard."

"Language!" Jimmy Barnard immediately chimed in in a sing-song voice, anticipating one of Clara's classroom discussion rules.

"Thank you, Jimmy." She held up a hand wearily, motioning to Dorna. "Why do you say that, Dorna?"

"Well, I mean he does everything he can to make her think he doesn't like her, like, spends all that time carrying on 'bout Blanche Ingram, talkin' 'bout marryin' her and stuff. He makes her think she's leavin' when the whole time he's plannin' on marryin' her instead. Then he, like, springs it on her – the truth I mean – and 'spects Jane to jus' be like, 'Oh, you mean all that 'bout Blanche was just bullsh – _rubbish_? Well, good job I love you so much – let's get married!'"

Tristan Littleton sniggered.

Clara looked at him meaningfully. "Yes, Tristan? Anything to add to that?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug. "No, Miss," he mumbled with downcast eyes.

"Okay – anyone else?"

Her students were silent, save for some shuffling of feet. Mike Barron let out a loud yawn, leaning back in his chair.

Clara rested against her desk. "Remember one of the essay topics is a character piece, and Mr. Rochester is a good one for that. Anyone want to venture a guess as to _why_ he might have misled Jane for so long?"

Her students were doing their best impressions of waking zombies. Finally, Robbie Cramer offered a tentative hand.

"Yes, Robbie?"

"'Cause he was scared?" he asked squeakily.

Clara nodded encouragingly. "Okay. Say more."

His eyes doubled behind his thick glasses. "Ummmm…ermmmm…."

"What was he scared of? Can you think of anything?" She coaxed.

He scratched at his head. "He…he was scared that…uuuumm…she was gonna leave?"

"Bullshit!"

Clara's eyes snapped to the middle of the room at Dorna. "Dorna, you'll get your turn. And what did I say about language?"

Dorna folded her arms defiantly. "He's scared she's gonna leave – that's bull – _rubbish_!" She huffed. "Is that _every_ boy's excuse then? 'Oh no, I can't _possibly_ be _nice_ to 'er 'cause then she'll know I like her! An' she might not like _me _like that, so I'll jus' be an ar – uh – a complete _git_ – and then she won't know and she won't leave?'"

It was Clara's turn to blink, and she found herself stammering. "Uh – well, people can fear rejection – that's very um – _human_, don't you think?" The room suddenly felt warmer.

Dorna wasn't having any of it, though. "But that's not even all there is – it's like he gets to be the one who like, holds everythin' back, and _she's_ jus' expected to go along with it! He's willin' to base their _entire_ relationship on a lie!"

Some male voice muttered something about _ooh burnt_ and _two-timin' Tom gonna get it_, but Clara didn't catch it. Her world had narrowed to the fiery adolescent rage of Dorna McAllister. That and the loud sound of her heartbeat in her ears. "You mean the wife?"

"Yeah!" Dorna shook her head in disgust. "He's like, 'You an' me, we're the same, Jane, we're like, totally built of the same stuff,' talkin' 'bout them bein' equals an' all, but he don' _treat_ her like that! _He's _the one who decides if she stays or goes; _he's _the one who keeps holdin' stuff back from her – if you ask me, he jus' likes havin' all the _power_."

Clara's mouth had gone dry. "Power?" she echoed, her voice sounding strangely far away.

"Yeah, power." Dorna sighed, her shoulders slumping, as if that was the most energy she'd expended in a while and it had physically drained her. At the very least, it was the most energy she'd expended in Clara's classroom in a while. Dorna took a minute to gather herself, sounding almost sad. "I mean, if you really love someone, you show it, right? You don' jus' keep lyin' and lyin' and lyin' – right?" She raised her eyes, meeting Clara's with a steady, almost pleading gaze. "How is that _love_, Miss Oswald?"

Clara's mouth opened and closed, her fingers finding the edge of the desk and digging in, curling into the wood until her nails protested. "Yes. Good." She nodded, the motion making her head swim. "Dorna, that's good – that'll be a good character study then, asking those questions, looking into that, very good. Great essay topic, top notch." Her voice sounded shrill to her ears.

Blessedly, she only had to endure a few minutes of the questioning looks from her students as the bell rang soon after that. Her escape to the lavatory was timely, though when the stall door slammed shut, she only sat down hard on the seat, head cradled in her hands as her world spun and spun. Finally, she walked on shaky legs to the sink, splashing cold water on her face, but even that couldn't eradicate Dorna's earnest question that seemed to echo inside her brain.

_How is that love?_

It was everywhere: in bold-faced type posters announcing upcoming chess club meetings, monthly raffle drawings and the annual fundraising bake sale that lined the school corridors; in the graffiti scrawled on the rusty boards across from the gated entrance to Coal Hill; in the flashing signs that announced her bus stop. And when she discovered that it had followed her back to her Dad's flat, finding it in elegant peach-coloured script in the crocheted platitudes that her step-mother loved to decorate with, she decided it was time to return home.

She opened the door to her bedroom with a purposeful sweeping motion, determined to find the answer.

The Pandora's Box association no longer fit, as her mind had proved quite adept in taking the memories and twisting them in her dreams, embellishing to the point that _desk, cupboard _and_ bed _were relatively tame by now.

It had taken her all afternoon, but she thought she finally had the answer.

And so she marched over to her nightstand and wrenched open the drawer, plucking the culprit of the source of _all_ her woe from its hiding place.

The bloody translator.

It had taken her Doctor from her…

It had left her with a dead man's voice, thoughts, feelings, desires to comfort and yet torment her for months and months…

It contained a message that lived on, that had been co-opted, seized by a man who hadn't demonstrated even a _trace_ of what those words contained.

Or had he?

She hadn't used the translation screen in a while, and it took her a few tries to find the right button. But it whirred to life, and she watched with a single-minded intent: _find the evidence. Prove that it's love._

Seeing the words scroll past brought the message to life for her again, made the meaning somehow more immediate. There was "lost, broken and had given up all hope…and _you_ brought me to life again;" and "I suppose I never told you that it was _always_ Wednesday for me…that I filled my days with Wednesdays;" and "there are few things I have experienced in either this life or any of the previous ones that brought me the – the…how do I say this? You were the windsong of my hearts, Clara." And finally there was, "many regrets, of course, but you? All those times I almost reached for you, almost touched you, wishing I'd taken those cheeky little touches into something more defined, and _oh_, believe me I'd thought about it. I'd thought about all the ways I wanted to have you, all those rooms in the TARDIS – and yes, I mean _all _of them. I'd thought about it every time I would stand behind you when we looked at those views, how you'd react if I'd given in and started kissing you on the neck at Loktor, and how long it would've been before we lay down in the grass, and with your _skirts_ and _dresses"_ (he emitted a low chuckle) "it would've been _very_ easy, indeed…"

She stopped it, her familiar question sounding from her lips before she could stop it. "So _why_ didn't you?"

The familiar answers came back to her, tired and used: because he ran out of time. Because he didn't want to ruin things between them. Because he didn't know how she felt. Because because because…

She raised the translator, sliding down the edge of her bed and landing on the floor with a thud. Her original instinct to smash it to pieces evaporated like breath on a mirror; this was all she had left of her Doctor. She squeezed it between her palms, pressing it to her forehead.

"You wouldn't have done this," she whispered. "You would _never_ have done…" A sob welled up from her throat, cutting her off. She bowed her head between her knees, shoulders quaking. "Why?" she wanted to know. She shook the translator. "_Why_, Doctor?"

It was impossible to say who she was talking to, but a new answer bubbled up, settling over her. A new "because"…

_Because he was a coward._

Because he wouldn't have done this. _Any _of it. Because it was only when he was dying, when he knew he was out of time and wouldn't have to face her – that he'd allowed himself to pour his hearts out to her. And yes, he'd left her with something to hold onto of him in fear of what might come next, something to reassure her in case the next face turned out to be…well – exactly like it had, actually (at least until the Earth-shattering revelation of last week) – but it had left her clinging to a ghost.

To the past.

Had she been so blinded that she hadn't noticed the subtle shifts in the Doctor's behaviour around her in the present? Had he actually been demonstrating his want and his love of her, and she'd just been too biased against him for it to register?

But no…she couldn't have done. Because it wasn't just that he'd stopped touching her – he'd stopped – so much of what he used to do. More of the travel seemed work-related now than anything: messes he wanted to fix; problems that needed solutions. There were fewer and fewer of the trips like to Holi, where they went just for something _fun_. She hadn't been lying when she told Frederick that the Doctor planned all the trips – and it's not like that hadn't always been the case. It's just that he used to plan them with some sort of awareness of what she might actually enjoy. Now it was about what _he_ wanted or decided or thought was best. She barely got a say anymore.

Oh, right…that comment about _power_.

She sighed, wiping at her eyes. None of it was adding up for her.

Good job she had another two weeks to sort it all out.

* * *

Unfortunately, Clara had even fewer answers by the third week. Because by the third week, all of her unanswered questions were dominated by one thing and one thing only:

She. Missed. Him.

She missed the TARDIS; she missed the traveling; she missed the excitement and the anticipation of a new destination, a new time period, a new planet, a new alien race; she missed the running; she missed the thrill of being in a life-or-death situation and having to make split-second decisions. Her life seemed painfully dismal and maddeningly penned-in and stagnant without the Doctor.

And she _did_ miss the Doctor.

It wasn't the dull ache of missing the younger Doctor; this ache was fresher, sharper and more complicated. She hadn't gotten over her fury at him, and yet, she wished he'd show up early. She wished he'd misjudge and show up a week early, not just his usual ten minutes - despite all of the complex emotions _that_ meeting would entail. But she didn't care. She had never been apart from the Doctor for this long since she'd first met him, and it frightened her how much his absence weighed her down. And how moody and on-edge she was without his mercurial moods to bring out her calmer and sane side.

And then of course there was –

_Do you still love me?_

He'd want an answer, she was certain of it. Unlike before he changed, this Doctor was direct, straight-to-the-point, with no dancing around an issue or dissembling. . When he didn't want to provide an answer (or when he didn't like it), he opted for silence, not lies. Which had made his months and months of purposeful deception all the more shocking.

By the end of the third week, she was so desperate for a distraction from the ever-growing pile of unanswered questions, that she actually texted Frederick.

She didn't hear from him for six days.

* * *

Clara broke down and rang Frederick that weekend and left what was quite possibly the most pathetic voicemail of her life. She was hungry for something – _anything_ – to break up the monotony of her current existence, and finally, her prayers were answered. He rang her back just a few minutes later, sounding out of breath as he navigated his way towards a Very Important Football Match at his local pub, The Oak & Crown. His invite was half-hearted, but Clara jumped at the opportunity, shocking him with her level of enthusiasm.

It had all of the elements of a trip with the Doctor: an unknown population with rituals and customs entirely foreign to her (not only were there specific drinks for specific team members but there were chants and nicknames for them, too); a life-or-death situation (judging by the mood of the crowd); having to make split-second decisions (should she politely decline the drink being offered her by the bloke with the scraggly ginger beard, using the excuse that she was there _with_ someone else?); and finally, educational. Apparently _everyone_ called Frederick "Ricky."

Still – there wasn't that outlet for her pent-up energy: watching all the running on the telly only made her restless, and the rest was a whole lot of sitting. And drinking. She might've been able to strike up conversations with some of them if they hadn't been so bloody invested in the match. So halfway through her second pint, she stole out to the back to get some air.

Frederick – _Ricky_ – was smoking a fag and texting. She sauntered over to him, starved for even a half-friendly, half-awkward chat.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"All right," he replied, sticking his mobile back in his pocket. He gave her a sideways glance. "You don't really seem like you're having all that much fun."

Clara's smile was apologetic. "No, sorry." She shrugged. "Guess it's not really my thing."

Ricky gave her a lopsided grin, making one of those "what are you gonna do?" gestures. They both shook their heads.

She felt the need to fill the silence. "And – sorry about not getting in touch earlier. The last month has been a bit – um, difficult, I guess."

He shrugged, looking unconcerned at her failed communication attempts. It's not like he had made any great effort, either. "'S'all right."

This time the silence was different, like they were so far apart that they were almost strangers. Perhaps it was what she needed. "I was seeing someone," she admitted, the words feeling strange out of her mouth for the first time. "Sort of. I mean – have you ever met those pairs that everyone thinks is a couple? Like – they finish each other's sentences and they're always flirting and always in each other's space? And everyone knows they're a couple but them?"

Ricky gave a half-hearted shrug. "Not really," he said.

"Oh." She was sheepish for about three seconds. "Well – I was in one of those situations. And – that man that I travel with, the one I told you about? It was his…younger brother. Like a _lot_ younger, like twenty years, closer to my age. That's how I met him, actually. 'Cause I knew his younger brother first."

Ricky frowned. "Thought you said you met him at work, right?"

Clara ducked her head, her cheeks reddening at her lie. "Yeah, that was um, that wasn't true. I just said that 'cause…'cause I dunno. It sounded better, I guess." She gave him a half-apologetic smile.

He didn't seem terribly ruffled by her deception. "Okay."

"But the thing was," she hurried on, "that I knew his younger brother before I knew him. I didn't even know he _had_ an older brother – they were…estranged. So I traveled with this younger brother, and that was a lot of my life, but then the younger brother…" She trailed off, her gaze fixing on the ground. She could feel Ricky's interest piquing more. "He died," she said quietly. "And…right before he died, he let me know that he'd felt all these things for me, left it in a message, actually. But then the older one stepped in, and took over. And he was…well _is_ – really different. Like seriously, almost complete opposite of his younger brother. You'd never even know they were related."

Ricky took a long drag off his cigarette, looking thoughtful. "Huh," was all he said.

"So, then I started traveling with the older one, and now _no one_ thought we were together or a couple because everything was so different between us. Honestly, there were times when I wondered why he continued to travel with me 'cause he didn't always seem to – well, _care_. About me. I was feeling like he just needed someone to be his travel companion so he didn't get lonely, and a lot of what I used to love just didn't feel…_fun_ anymore."

A light misting of rain started falling on them. But Clara didn't move, watching the tiny beads of condensation land on her sleeves, little points of light that flickered and faded.

"But then about a month ago, the new one – the older brother – he…he basically told me that he had developed the same feelings for me as his younger brother had. And…well, something happened between us. It was confusing and I don't know if it happened 'cause I was missing his brother or if I really feel anything for him, or I was just tired of being alone or I don't know what. It's just…it's complicated," she finished lamely.

Ricky flicked his cigarette off to the side, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. "Wow. Sounds like one of those shows my mum watches."

"Oh? Which one?"

He snapped his fingers a few times, hunting for the title. "East somethin', East – "

"'East Enders?'" Clara queried disbelievingly.

"Yeah, that's it. That's the one."

She huffed, arms tightening around her. "Bit more sensational and dramatic, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah – that's what I'm sayin'. I prefer a simpler life. No drama." He shook his head.

Her mouth thinned into a line. "Not really a fan of it myself."

"Sounds like you've been thinkin' on it a lot, though."

"Well, _yeah_, but…" She sighed, regretting her decision to talk to him. "Never mind. Sorry I brought it up, I didn't mean to make anything more…" She motioned vaguely between the two of them. "I didn't think it would really…I dunno. That you'd mind."

He gave a half shrug. "I don't."

It was difficult for her to decide between relief and genuinely peeved at his nonchalance.

He motioned with a jerk of his thumb. "Think I'm gonna go back in – you wanna come?"

She may have emphasized her half-hearted shrug more than usual. "I dunno. Maybe in a minute."

"Suit yourself." He toed the fully extinguished cigarette a few more times. "And uh – y'know, you can come back any time you like. Come out with us, I mean."

Clara ducked her head. "Um, thanks, Ricky, that's nice of you. But I don't know if you and I should be –"

"Oh, no, I don't mean like that." He shook his head, giving her a slightly bashful lopsided grin. "I mean –I want a woman who's gonna get excited by the same things. Y'know – who likes the sorta life I like, content to jus' go down to the pub and shoot the shit over a few pints with a bunch of mates and the match on. No offence, Clara, but you're clearly not that woman."

She smiled. He was so much more relaxed when he wasn't _trying_ so hard. "None taken. And no – I'm definitely not."

"I just thought…maybe you could use a friend."

He was already looking in the direction of the door, the comment so offhand, so common, so _used_ and _familiar_ in these dating situations-gone-wrong, and yet…

Something slid into place inside her with a _click_. Something so unexpected, she had to clear her throat from the lump that had formed there and make an effort to turn down the gratitude behind her smile. "Yeah," she agreed, her nod continuing for several seconds more than she'd planned. "Yeah, I really could. I'd like that."


End file.
